


Watching you without me

by zetsubooty



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Ghost Sex, M/M, Recovery, Sad Fluff, Suicide, graphic depictions of gardening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubooty/pseuds/zetsubooty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Perhaps it's a fate thing...like unfinished business. Maybe there’s another universe where you DO meet normally. Maybe there’s a universe where HE'S being haunted by YOU. Maybe there are universes where you never meet at all and live long, happy lives without ever knowing that you’re missing the other."</p><p>Two universes, reflections of each other, each missing a particular spark of life. And yet neither is entirely gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little light rising

**Author's Note:**

> My bro Chimeraprismatic is responsible for this. He reblogged this post: http://underthenerdhood.tumblr.com/post/92243212285/a-little-girl-who-grows-up-thinking-all-doors-are and tagged me all coy-like, just like 'ohhhh this would be cool with Abe and Mihashi, zetsubooty what do u think hmm? HMM??' What a JERK.
> 
> As soon as I started thinking about the concept, Kate Bush's song "Watching You Without Me" popped into my mind. Despite being...rather dated (it came out in 1985; it's even older than I am, wow...), it's a cool song from a great album that uses a lot of effects like backwards speech/singing, fractured, indistinct, strobing voices, directional sound, and a hypnotic, rocking ostinato, that in this particular track combine to make something that is simultaneously calming and unnerving.
> 
> I recommending having a listen, which you can do over here: https://8tracks.com/zets/just-like-a-photograph I'll alsp explain a bit more of why this song is important to this story later! （＾◇＾）/~~~~

 

 

> _you can't hear me_
> 
> _you can't feel me_
> 
> _here in the room with you now_
> 
> _you can't hear what I'm saying_
> 
> _you don't hear what I'm saying, do you?_
> 
> _Can't let you know what's been happening_
> 
> _There's a ghost in our home, just watching you without me._
> 
> _I'm not here._
> 
> _(you don't hear me)_
> 
> _But I'm not here._
> 
> _(you can't hear me)_
> 
> _But I'm not here._
> 
> _(you don't hear what I'm saying)_

* * *

➰

Ren was six when he heard the sirens.

Not an especially unusual occurrence; people get hurt, ambulances get called, and the sound and the lights and the pain bounce off the walls of your house but never touch you. But the uneasiness that had grown in Ren’s chest all afternoon bloomed into a deep sense of loss that sent him running inside to bury his face on his father’s shoulder, crying inconsolably. He had no words for the feeling, no explanation, though eventually his incoherent sobbing resolved into a repeated phrase.

“…hurts _._ ”

In a panic, Reiichi disentangled him and made him stand, trying to figure out where and how his son had injured himself. But there was no blood, no bruising, no broken bone, not even a bee sting, only Ren covering his face and repeating the words over and over and grabbing at his shirt over his chest.

Normally, Ren cries himself out pretty fast, but not this time. When it'd been well over half an hour, Reiichi started to feel concerned and phoned Naoe; she came home but had no more success getting Ren to calm down let alone tell them what happened. Eventually, they gave up and tried to put him to bed. He clung desperately to Naoe, even when she gave him his well-loved plush bunny (slightly the worse for wear, now) instead, so she scooped him back up and carried him down the hall to their bed, rubbing his back and making soothing noises until the sobs quieted and his breathing evened out.

She could hear snippets of her husband talking on the phone downstairs, calling his brother, trying to find out if they’d seen this kind of behavior before. Mostly just seeking reassurance that they were doing the right thing, that they weren’t being Bad Parents by not sweeping him off to the doctor.

A couple of days later when Reiichi reads in the morning paper about another kid about Ren's age, Abe Takaya, getting hit by a moving van (speeding because they were late, how shameful) when he was out on his bike and dying on the way to the hospital (how awful, the poor family), he doesn’t connect it to the incident. And why would he? The things that upset Ren are myriad, and he’s cried many times in the intervening days (though not like that, never like that). It _does_ contribute to his panic a few months later when he comes home from work and can’t find his son for hours.

It’s not entirely forgotten, though, and sometimes they affectionately tease Ren about it. He still can’t explain any better than he could then what had made him so upset. But then he’ll smile at them and tell them it doesn’t hurt like that anymore, and for some reason that unsettles them most of all.

At seven, there is still so much that’s mysterious about the world, so he doesn’t question it at first. Just.

When Ren misses the new target he made with Dad and sends a ball sailing into the bushes, he goes to push branches out of his way only to find they already are.

He's carrying an armload of toys and clothes and books that had somehow gravitated down to spread out over the livingroom floor back to his room, only to fidget in front of his closed door. But then it slides a little way open all on its own, enough that he can stick his foot in the space and shove it the rest of the way.

He’s a clumsy kid, prone to getting overexcited and too focused on his goal and not on things like keeping both feet under him and on firm ground. And yet Ren never seems to have any serious falls, or at least not anymore. His parents figure it’s just the normal development of motor skills, don’t notice that when he stumbles and falls it almost looks like someone grabs him around the waist, when he crouches, leaning out too far over a pond to look for fish or frogs or turtles or maybe mermaids, little indents appear on his arm, yanking him back and holding him steady until he can regain his balance.

Ren doesn’t know any better, this is just the reality he inhabits. So he doesn't anything about the strange cool softness that catches him when he falls off the jungle gym. It lingers around him for a little while, oddly comforting. Even though it feels a little like someone’s mad at him.

Feels that way a lot, actually, like when he doesn’t understand things at school, when he’s too timid to talk to the other kids, when he won’t stand up for himself. Just this odd, prickly pressure from beside him even though no one’s there. It scares him a little when it gets like that, and he _does_ try and tell Mama about it one time. But she doesn’t seem to understand, simply tells him he's being anxious and gives him a hug and tells him no one’s cross with him.

It reassures him a little. Until the next time it happens. But he doesn’t bother telling anyone this time, just hunches down over his desk and tries to pretend it’s not there until it gets fed up and goes away.

* * *

 ➰

Takaya’s older when it happens.

It’s the spring after he turns twelve. Heavy rainfalls swell the Arakawa river and blanket Saitama with a heavy susurrus. Practice is in full gear already, and he’s exhausted and sore (and somehow _extra_ out-of-sorts), so he decides to go to bed early.

Only to wake up with a start, almost nauseous with the sudden pain.

Takaya doesn’t cry, just curls on his side and pulls his blanket over his head, staring blankly into the darkness. But he’s a pragmatic kid and lying there sleepless seems stupid so he gets up, makes himself some hot chocolate, and sits at the kitchen table stubbornly telling himself there’s no good reason to feel this awful.

Takaya doesn’t handle confusion well, so he’s more frustrated than anything at this point. Although despite his firm disapproval of it, that sickly feeling of loss lingers with him well into the next day. Makes him snap at everyone, even more than usual. He doesn’t mention the incident to anybody, though, even when Haruna asks him what the hell his problem is for the second time. What would he even say? He just glares sullenly at him and raises his mitt, thwacking his fist into it hard.

The world of a twelve-year-old is more definite, more fully explored, so he notices right away. That doesn’t mean he’s immediately willing to accept what’s happening.

He’s reading downstairs and has just noticed it’s getting a bit dark when the lamp beside him switches on of its own accord. Takaya jumps. Stares at it. Then grumpily turns it off. Probably just a loose connection. There’s an odd feeling from near the lamp, an agitation that he steadfastly ignores until it eventually stops.

He'll be studying in his room and think of a book he needs, only to find...the wrong book suddenly resting on the edge of his desk. Or his calculator, or any number of other things he does  _not_ need at the moment. Takaya glowers into the thin air and goes to fetch the correct book.

His catching gear is always right to hand, no matter where he _thought_ he left it. He wonders sometimes if it would still work if he left it in the car.

Takaya comes to the grudging admission that _something_ is happening, even if he doesn't really want to acknowledge _what_.

It tends to flee when he’s angry, It’s awfully polite about not following him into toilets and change rooms, and It doesn’t seem to hang around when he sleeps, but otherwise It trails after him like a half-remembered scent. Except for when it disappears for hours at a time. Not that it _is_ , but if it _were_ some kind of ghost, Takaya supposes that it must get bored. Takaya likes his life well enough, but it’s hard to understand why this presence would find him so fascinating to dog around after.

It’s been going on for a couple of months when he goes to take a bath after getting home from practice and the presence follows him into the bathroom. _Did the stupid thing space out and not notice where I was going?_ He can feel Its startled agitation immediately when he starts to strip off his shirt, and, like always, he tries to ignore it. Until it abruptly stops. He figures It has left until he feels an odd coolness press against his ribs, against one of the shadow-dark bruises he’s acquired today.

It’s never touched him before and he inhales sharply, eyes widening. Quick, like a hand jerking back from a flame, the coolness disappears.

Feeling incredibly stupid, he half-whispers, “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised, you doof,” hoping his family are not anywhere within earshot. There’s a pause, during which he stares into the empty space in front of him feeling increasingly foolish but trying to keep his expression neutral.

And then the coolness brushes over his ribs again, soothing as it presses against the swollen skin.

He has no idea if It wants to know, but… “From practice, from that jerk’s pitching. See this one?” he points to a particularly nasty one on his left forearm with a fierce grin, “But you saw, I didn’t even make a sound. Barely even flinched!” It touches the bruise lightly, and one corner of Takaya’s mouth quirks up in a more pleasant smile. “That feels nice, actually.” It could be his imagination (it’s probably ALL his imagination), but It seems…happy.

Coolness presses against his chest, wrapping around his waist for a moment, then drawing back to slide down his shoulders, his arms, lingering wherever there’s a bruise, wherever his muscles are knotted with hot tension. Goosebumps stand up on his skin where it passes, stand up on his nape, but the ache fades a bit. “Geez, you’re so cold!” Maybe it’s the contrast, but his face feels weirdly warm. “I gotta take a bath, though,” he says, a bit reluctantly, “but maybe you could do that again later.” No, he’s definitely _blushing_. While talking to an imaginary friend. In the bath. Takaya turns pointedly away, unbuttoning his pants, and It backs off.

That night, though, It doesn’t leave.

He can feel It hovering near the bed, and then there’s a cool touch on that same spot on his ribs. Doesn’t matter how wide he opens his eyes, there’s still nothing to see in the dark beside his bed, but It’s definitely _there_. Heart in his mouth (though not with fear, never with fear, nothing about this thing is threatening), he scoots over on the bed and then throws back the blanket, patting the sheets beside him lightly. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, if he thought the mattress would dent under Its weight or what, but there’s still nothing visible. And yet It’s definitely there.

A shivery touch runs down his arm. Takaya rolls on his side, feels It snuggle closer, sliding what he assumes are hands over his exposed skin and rumpling his pyjamas lightly with Its touch.  _So you can only act on stuff when you want to?_ In the midsummer heat, the coolness is more than welcome, though as time passes, Its touch becomes warmer. Takaya doesn’t complain, though (at least it’s not giving him goosebumps now), because it’s still comforting, still feels good. He falls asleep with something like a relaxed expression, trying not to think about the fact that a ghost is petting him.

* * *

➰

Ren first talks to the Nothing because he’s scared, shouts, “GO AWAY!” when it looms angrily over him as he huddles shaking and sobbing behind a bush after getting yelled at by the class rep for not helping out enough when it was his turn to clean the classroom.

Unfortunately, one of his classmates overhears him.

“Who’re you talking to?”

“N-n…no…no one.” He realises when he sees that unkind glint in the girl’s eye that he’s made a mistake.

“You got an imaginary friend?” Ren shakes his head, biting his lip. “Well, yeah, OBVIOUSLY not, if you’re tellin' them to go away!”

Another kid from their class jogs up, looking between them curiously. “What’s up?”

“He was yelling at nothing like a weirdo. Guess you can’t even make _imaginary_ friends, huh, loser?” Snickering, the two of them run off.

Ren hopes they’ll forget about it.

They don’t.

Especially not after the second time someone catches him talking to the Nothing.

 _Everyone_ seems to know about it. Kids who he doesn’t know grades younger than him will point at him and yell mocking things, tell him he’s a baby. And it’s awful, because it makes the Nothing almost _vibrate_ with anger beside him, particularly when he just runs away (usually crying) and he wants to tell them it’s _not_ , it’s _not_ imaginary, it’s _not_ his friend, it just frightens him a lot of the time and now it won’t leave him _alone_. But he can’t, he can’t, because they won’t believe him, they’ll just make fun of him even more. He doesn’t tell his parents about it either when he goes home, just runs upstairs and curls up on the floor behind his bed with the blanket pulled over his head.

There’s a cool touch on his knees.

He can _feel_ the Nothing, feel that it’s still frustrated. Just muted, now, and overlaid with a perplexed contriteness that makes him raise his head (still under the blanket). “Wish you were _nicer_ ,” he says, sulkily, and the touch pulls away, the irritation flares up. Ren pulls his legs tighter against his chest, shaking. But the scary feeling only lasts for a moment. The Nothing leaves.

As soon as it’s gone, he misses it, he wants to go to it and apologise. But how is he supposed to find someone whose only home is by his side?

When he opens the door to his room on his way to bed and feels the Nothing’s presence again, he bursts into tears. Ren chokes out, “No, d-don’t leave!” before it can get the wrong idea. He does his best to stop crying, scrubbing his face free of tears with one hand as he slides shut the door behind him, and smiles shyly at the place where he thinks the Nothing is. “You _are_ my friend, right? You’re…that looks a-a-after me all the time.” He’s not sure it _can_ , but he imagines that the Nothing nods in response because it makes him feel better.

It hangs back while he changes into pyjamas (which is relatively recent: for one thing, even when the Nothing first appeared, he regularly got distracted halfway through getting dressed and got stuck in his clothes or forgot to put them on entirely, and the Nothing used to irritably help him), but he can feel it nearby when he gets into bed. “Where do _you_ sleep?” he mumbles pointlessly, wriggling under his blanket. If the Nothing ever found a way to answer, it wasn’t before Ren drifted off.

The only thing that saves the Imaginary Friend Situation from becoming _completely_ unbearable is it happens during his second-to-last year at elementary school, so he doesn't have to live through TOO much of that misery. And he’s going to middle school far away, so there’s little likelihood that anyone will pass on that particular piece of gossip. Things will be better, then.

A fresh start.

A second chance.

That's what he keeps telling himself.

At Mihoshi, it's the same pattern: he cries and hides, and the Nothing gets pissed off, which just makes him cry _more_. Then it leaves and he feels _awful_ , he feels guilty and ashamed and alone in a way he’s rarely felt for nearly half his life, now.

But the Nothing always comes back. Pressing coolness against his hand, oddly tentative, almost like a hello, a silent _I’m sorry_ , and he’ll turn his hand so his palm cradles that coolness like _I’m sorry too_.

A couple of times, he’ll say something like, “I’m sorry you ended up haunting someone as awful as me,” but it makes the Nothing recoil, angry again, so he stops saying it after a while. He still thinks it to himself, though. Sometimes, it makes him bawl afresh, and he can tell that the Nothing is bewildered and frustrated, but it stays, it stays. Sometimes, it almost seems to lean on him, feels like someone slings a cool arm around his shoulder, and it helps the tears stop, helps him think maybe he’s not so alone.

* * *

➰

Takaya’s not entirely sure what he THOUGHT he would find when he types “ghost + science” into the school library's computer. He finds something talking about special effects in movies, but that’s it. “Supernatural + science” doesn’t turn up anything useful, either. He tries out a few other queries, but no dice. Probably better to check at a public library, anyway, but he still had to try. Takaya makes sure to click ‘start new search’ so no one will casually see what he was looking up, then leaves the terminal.

He turns too quickly to notice that the ‘t’ key jiggles a little, then is pressed down, followed by the ‘a’ key.

After school, he hops on his bike and sets off toward the library, passing corner store and apartment buildings and a ramen shop and—

And a thick hedge broken by an elegant roofed gate.

Takaya slows. Then stops, peering up the steep path paved with worn stones leading to some old wooden buildings. _Monks know about dead things, right? They might have books on this kind of thing…_

Takaya dismounts and leans his bike against the hedge (hoping that’s not rude for some reason), then walks up to the gate, hesitating in its cool shadow. _Is anyone even here…?_ Taking a deep breath, he starts up the steps.

He’s almost ready to turn back when the temple courtyard comes into full view, along with a man on the far side of middle age sitting on the wooden walkway of one building. His head is shaved, and he’s wearing a loose-fitting dark blue jacket and pants, and all in all, if it wasn’t for the (somewhat trashy-looking) mystery novel he’s reading, Takaya would’ve felt like he just walked back in time a few hundred years.

The monk looks up when he approaches. Takaya opens his mouth, frowns, bows while he considers what to say. The last time he was somewhere like this it was for his grandmother’s funeral when he was five, and his mother had coached him and Shun through everything they did. _Well, not like I plan to start hanging out here, so as long as I’m fairly polite, it should be fine._

“Ojisan—”

The monk snorts, putting down his book. “What a kind boy! Not gonna call me an old man?” Takaya jerks his head back, blinking in irritated confusion. The man continues smiling at him with a raised eyebrow until it becomes apparent he'll need to prompt Takaya. “What can I do for ya, kid?”

“I…” He can feel himself starting to flush, but being blunt seems better. “Are ghosts real?”

Now it’s the monk’s turn to blink in surprise. Then frown at him. “Of course not.”

“Good.” Takaya nods definitively and turns back down the path. “I’ll be goi—”

“Wait, kid. That was a serious question, wasn’t it?” Takaya doesn’t turn to face him, just gives him a sidelong glance and a reluctant nod. “Why?”

 _This was a mistake._ “Just wanted to know. For…school.”

“You’re full of shit, kid.” The monk rubs the back of his head, sighing. “Tell Ojisan about it. ‘S kind of my job, I guess.”

Takaya watches him for a moment longer, considering. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen this man before, and the temple is enough outside his regular neighbourhood that it’s _possibly_ safe to confide in him. Hoping he’s not going to regret it, he drops down cross-legged on the paving stones in front of the monk. “Can a person be haunted?”

“Yes.”

“Can a ghost be friendly? Or good?”

“Y— That…is a difficult question.” The monk rubs his chin, frowning. “Depends who you’re asking, really. I mean, the sutras teach that ghosts are borne out of a person’s attachments to this physical world, to a person, to love, to avarice, to vengeance, all that fun stuff. Even when these emotions seem benevolent, even if what keeps them there is a desire to protect… It is still a soul that has become twisted and has fallen off the proper course, and it is suffering, whether or not it realises. So it may—”

“He’s suffering?!” The words pop out of him before he’s thought them through, his voice cracking on a panicked note. But the idea that It was _trapped_ with him and in pain… And yet such a sweet-natured creature.

The monk gives him a considering look before dismissively waving his hand in front of himself. “This is all theoretical, of course, just words written on scrolls by stuffy old men hundreds of years ago. I suppose I _should_ tell you it’s definitely so, but I can’t pretend to know _that_ much about ghosts. Didn’t really seem like the most important subject at Monk School.” He gives Takaya a wry grin. “You’d almost be better off talking to a professor of folklore, or something. All _I_ can do…I _can_ offer to exorcise it. Him?”

“Him.” He couldn’t say how he knows, and in some ways, Its shyness around his body makes It seem more like a girl, but…It’s definitely a boy. He supposes he should stop referring to him with ‘It’, then.

“So. I could exorcise him.”

“No!” Takaya grimaces. “Maybe. If he’s really in pain, I don’t want him stuck with me!”

“But if he’s not…?”

The damn monk keeps _listening_ to him; Takaya ducks his chin, expression verging on sullen. “Then…I want him to stay.”

The monk frowns at him for a moment, then leans back, looking up at the sky. “Ah…”

“He’s been here for like a year! He’s always there. It’d be weird if he just…disappeared, after all that.” He’s making excuses and he barely knows what for. It’s _his_ ghost, he didn’t even _have_ to tell this stupid old man about it. “Besides, it’d feel like…like I was kicking him out, or something. It’d feel mean.”

“And you don’t want to hurt a ghost’s feelings.” It’s a somewhat bemused statement, not a question.

Takaya wrinkles his nose. “I hurt his feelings all the time! He’s too sensitive. It’s annoying. I didn’t think dead people would get upset so easily.” Part of him’s horrified by this conversation, but it’s also a relief to be able to talk about this like the reality that it is.

The monk stares at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing, drooping over his knees. Takaya’s eyes narrow, and he stiffly rises to his feet. The monk waves him back down. “No, stick around, kid. Just...the things you say…” He still chuckles, wiping a tear out of his eye. But his smile is friendly and Takaya still has too many questions, so he sits.

“You said it’s because of attachment. So, the ghost is attached to _me?_ ”

“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to work, yes. You piss someone off, kid?”

Takaya glowers. “Not that I can think of. Least, not enough that they’d want to haunt me if they were dead. I don’t think I know many angry dead people…” The monk laughs again, and Takaya decides to ignore it (although he can’t stop himself from flushing). “And it never feels like he means me harm. Actually—” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to be whining about his injuries to this guy: it seems weak, and all that’s going to be over when the season ends, anyway. And besides… For some reason, talking about the way the ghost tends to them…that’s personal. His cheeks feel warmer.

The monk gives him an expectant look, but when he doesn’t continue, he shrugs. “So, it’s a positive attachment, then. If it were a girl, or if the ghost seemed older, like a grandparent or…?” Takaya shakes his head, “then I would say love. Hmm... I guess the root of it is unfinished business, so.” He shifts, resting his chin on his hand, brow furrowing. “Perhaps it’s a fate thing. Like, you were supposed to have met later on, and it would have been important for both of you. But he died sooner than he was supposed to, and now here you are. And then, I suppose, if and when he’s fulfilled whatever need he would have while alive, he’ll pass on.”

“How can we be supposed to have met if we didn’t?” Takaya demands indignantly. “That makes dick all sense.” The monk laughs again, and he glowers back at him.

“That, you’d need to talk to a physicist about, I think. Maybe there’s another universe where you _do_ meet normally. Maybe there’s a universe where _he’s_ being haunted by _you_. Maybe there are universes where you never meet at all and live long, happy lives without ever knowing that you’re missing the other. Who knows?”

Takaya considers for a moment. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“Hmm?”

“That last. It sounds sad.”

“Sadder than one of you being _dead?_ ”

“Well, at least we still have a chance to help each other this way!”

“Karma’s not a straight line, kid. You could still help each other even if you didn’t meet.”

Takaya crosses his arms. “I still don’t like it. It’s better to meet.” He doesn’t have words for the strange possessive feeling he gets thinking about not having the ghost in his life, and isn’t sure he’d _want_ to explain it if he could.

“That’s rather selfish of you.”

He blanches; apparently, the monk can read him perfectly well without him voicing such things. “What?!”

“Thinking it’s better to have him stuck with you than to move on? Pretty selfish.”

“It’s not! _I’d_ want to stay with him, if it were reversed. I’d like to help him too!”

“And that makes it better? That just makes it messed up, kid. Probably for the best he’s not real.”

Takaya’s mouth fixes in a flat line, then he says, in a clipped tone, “You don’t actually believe me.”

"That's not what I—” The monk sighs, rubbing his forehead. “No, you're right. I’m sorry, kid, it’s just a lot to accept. I’m doing my best to take you seriously here, because _you_ obviously do, but…” He shakes his head. “Take pity on a poor old man who’s used to dealing with grannies worried about whether it’s okay to skimp on the rice they leave out for their dead husbands, not this kind of stuff.” Takaya continues to glare at him, but feels his anger falter when the monk gives him an apologetic smile. “Where is your friend, anyway? He got an opinion in all this?”

Takaya gives him a wide-eyed look, then looks away, shrugging. “Dunno. He disappears sometimes. Usually when he gets bored or scared… But he’ll be back tonight!” The monk seems amused by his confidence. “Not that it would matter: he can’t talk to me, I just feel stuff from him.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Tried to get him to talk? How? I don’t think he can.”

“Well, perhaps he could write somehow...?”

Takaya frowns thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that…” Having found a direction, something to _do_ , he’s suddenly impatient, done with the conversation. “Thanks a lot.” Takaya stands, then bows. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it, kid. I complain, but it’s nice to have something exciting happen for a change. Don’t hesitate to come back, okay?”

“Right. I won’t.” And, to his annoyance, he thinks he means it.

“Just, if you _wanted_ to come to me with something _normal_ next time, I could probably be more help…”

He smiles awkwardly, half-bows again, then jogs down the path and gets back on his bike. As the wind rushes through his hair like cool fingers, he can’t help wondering once again where on earth the ghost disappears to when it’s not with him.

* * *

➰

In another house, not that far away but far enough, Yuuichirou finishes barricading himself in against the hall cupboard with pets, curling over to bury his face in Tama’s fur and finally letting himself cry. The cat struggles, making disgruntled noises and twitching her tail. _Completely_ insensitive to the situation. Yuu feels betrayed but still lets her go; she primly walks a few feet away before plonking down and starting to bathe.

He glares at her sulkily. “You don’t even care, you jerk.” He sticks his tongue out at the cat. She ignores him, craning her neck to lick her shoulder.

He feels coolness in front of him, a wave of concern. “Oh, _you’re_ here?” Yuu perks up for a second before his face screws up with worry, his voice coming out a pathetic wail. “My great-grandpa’s in the hospital, and I can’t find anyone!” He bites his lip, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears. _Gotta try and look at least a little bit cool in front of another dude, even if he’s dead_.

Barely tangible fingers brush his wet cheek. Mustering a grin, Yuu pushes the hamster cage out of the way, then pats the floor beside him. He can feel his friend settle beside him, and leans into the coolness.

“‘M glad you’re here.”

At first, he thinks it’s his imagination, but he doesn’t feel as cold as normal. By the time his family gets home, he’s lulled by the warmth of the not-body beside him and is fast asleep. In all the commotion of getting home and settled and good-natured arguing about whose fault it was for forgetting him, no one really notices that the angle he’s leaning at doesn’t make any sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure my PAAS prof will be pleased to know I'm using the things I learned in our class on the afterlife for such lofty purposes... I apologise if anything in this fic re: Buddhism is incorrect or offensive; I try to research as much as I can and be respectful, but feel free to let me know if anything's not cool! But you honestly can't talk about death in Japan without tripping over it, so...


	2. Blinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo sup sup I keep forgetting to mention but right now I'm busting ass on a couple of secret santa fills, which is why I haven't been generating anything new;;;; BUT it means that come the end of December, there should be some fun stuff coming, and I also got some delightful suyasakamizu PWP in the works for the lovely Nana. :3

➰

Takaya makes sure everything is ready.

His desk is cleared of everything except for a notebook and a selection of pens and pencils. He’d even considered digging through Shun’s room to see if he still had any finger-paints since the ghost seemed to have less trouble with softer substances. But right now, he’s just trying to get proof of concept.

His heart thumps in his chest as he waits seated on the side of his bed. Takaya gets up again, adjusting the chair so it’s invitingly angled, easy to sit in. Spreading out the writing implements on the desk so they’re easier to grab. Then tucking them back together so they look less sloppy. Then takes up post again.

And waits.

He’s still sitting there when Mom calls up that supper’s ready.

Takaya shovels food into his face, managing to respond with short and adequate answers when Dad tries to talk to him. Eventually, Dad sighs and stops; Takaya feels simultaneously resentful and triumphant.

He stalks up to his room and flips on the light. And startles as though he _could_ see the presence hovering uncertainly near the foot of his bed.

Takaya scowls across at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where _were_ you? You’ve been gone for days.” Well, two and a half days. And some of that had been because of his own extracurricular exploration. Takaya’s expression becomes stormier.

And, of course, the ghost doesn’t answer.

He slips closer, until his coolness radiates over Takaya’s arms, making the hairs stand up. A waver of uncertain happiness.

Takaya grits out a sigh, side-stepping around him. On the way past, he grabs a handful of something—shirt?—and drags the ghost with him over to his desk.

“Sit down.” So far as he can tell, the ghost does, now a smear of growing fear as Takaya leans over him and the desk. “You’re about my age, right? So you know how to write. And you can move stuff.”

He waits expectantly; the ghost buzzes nervously at him in a completely unproductive fashion.

Takaya picks up a pencil, holding it loosely by the eraser above the page. “Try it. Write something.”

Cool air brushes his fingertips. And his chest, the ghost seeming to peer up at him in confusion.

“It’s not that hard! Just take the damn pencil!” The ghost flinches, hand jerking away before inching back to curl around the pencil. Takaya releases it. “C’mon! Talk!” The pencil wobbles. “Are you stupid or something? Wh—”

With a clatter, the pencil drops to the desk, rolling a few centimeters away. The ghost’s hand hasn’t moved.

“Why can’t you do it? C’mon!” Takaya snatches up a pen, holding it ready. Then shivers when cold air rushes over his chest and through his arm, catching briefly before disappearing.

He kicks the chair. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

* * *

 ➰

Yuu was perfectly willing to accept the ghost for what it was, and started yapping to it within a week of its arrival. Thinking of it simply as ‘the ghost’ got annoying pretty fast, though, so:

“I should give you a name! Lessee…you’re yuurei, so I could call you… But Yuu’s my name! So you can’t have that… I’ll call you Rei! Because it’s nothing, like you!”

He cackles, but “Rei” seems distressed.

“You don’t like it? I think it sounds cool.” He considers. “But I guess you’re not a pet. You musta had a real name when you were alive. You like that one better?” Of course, there’s no answer. “If I could use your real name, I would!” He raises his pinky in the air, and after a moment, coolness curls around it; Yuu grins fiercely. “It’s a promise! If you ever find a way to tell me your real name, I’ll call you that.”

* * *

➰

Ren’s always liked Ruri, even if she can be a bit mean and bossy. They get closer in some ways now he’s living with her family. But, though Ren considers telling her about the Nothing several times, he’s not really sure how to start. And there’s a chance she’ll be mean and tease him about it too.

And _she_ might tell _Kanou_ , and then Kanou might tell their teammates, and that would be very, _very_ bad.

On the one hand, Ren likes talking to her; Ruri treats him like the same old Renren he’s always been, not like some pariah, not like someone too embarrassing to know anymore. But on the other hand it kind of sucks when she comes home after a sleepover shining with excitement and full of stories to tell. Just rubs it in his face that he only really has half a friend. If he whines about it, though, she’d just tell him he should try harder to make friends, so he keeps silent.

And anyway, it’s fascinating, a window into the secret world of girls. She shows him her nails: painted bright pink, heart-shaped glitter over top. “I’ll probably have to take it off before school on Monday, but it’s SUPER CUTE! Aiko-chan has ALL the best makeup. She uses brushes, just like a grown-up! I’m a little jealous... Hey, you should get me some for my birthday!” Ren’s not sure why brushing one’s hair is particularly grown up (so far as he knows, Ruri has at least two, herself), but figures he'll ask some other time, because Ruri's already telling him 90% of the plot of the film they watched as well as a lot of gossip about girls he’s only ever met in passing if at all.

But then she mentions something _much_ more intriguing.

“…then when it got dark, someone made an Angel Board. Super cheesy, I know, but that sort of thing’s still fun, even if it’s not for real...”

“What’s…?”

“Angel Board? You know, where you write out kana on a piece of paper, and then get a coin or something (we had to use a cup ‘cause there were too many people), and everyone puts their fingers on it, and then a ghost is supposed to move it to spell stuff out. Like you’re talking to it? It’s pretty lame, and you KNOW there’s always one person who’s moving it on purpose, but it’s still fun.”

“Can you really…can you really talk to ghosts?”

“What?” Ruri gives him a disappointed look. “Of course not, dummy! It’s just pretend.”

Ren blushes, but perseveres. “How…um, to make…?”

Ruri gives him an unimpressed look, but helps him make a board. In a rare moment of stealthiness, he gets her to ‘play’ it with him so he can pretend he’s just generally interested. Also, that way he knows how to do it.

The "ghost" they contact is named "Pigface" and informs him that he smells like a butt and also he should give his cousin some of the fruit-yogurt candies he bought the other day. Ren glares suspiciously at Ruri, who grins back at him and won't confess to moving the coin even when he pulls her braids.

After supper, he dashes up to his room with the paper stuffed in his back pocket. He flattens it out as best he can, digs out a coin, and kneels on the floor, setting his index fingers on it.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t move.

“Please.” Nothing. “I want to… Please, I want to talk to you.” Still nothing. Ren bites his lip.

Then coolness covers his fingers and the coin moves. _not…doing…this_

He blinks at it. “But you…you did!”

 _it’s lame stoppin_ The air above the coin feels warmer suddenly.

“No, please! I’m,” he bites his lip again, frustrated, “I really…to…to know about you too. You know all about me! So…that’s why…that’s why…” He’s starting to tear up.

 _fine quit cryin_ He smiles, snuffling a little. _what want know_

“Are you really a ghost?”

_think so pretty sure dead_

“Oh… I’m…sorry??”

It takes him a moment to realise the ghost is trying to indicate laughter by bouncing the coin on the ‘ha’ kana. _been dead for a while kind of used to it_

“If it’s okay, um, what…what’s your name?”

_Abe Takaya._

For some reason, it pleases him immensely to finally have a name for the Nothing, and he repeats the name to himself, smiling giddily.

_you look c_

Abe stops, and won’t explain, and Ren doesn’t want to make him mad, so he drops it, changes the subject.

“How come y-y-you’re…with me?”

_what_

“Why’re you haunting me? We di-didn’t know…before…?”

 _don’t think so dunno_ He’s trying to think of another question when the coin moves again. _when died felt drawn somewhere drawn to you dunno why_

“O-oh.” He’s not really sure how to respond, feels himself blushing. “S-sorry…”

Abe yanks on his hair; THAT’S new. _don’t_

“Sor…okay! Won’t.”

_like being around y_

Ren blushes, and he can feel that Abe’s taken his fingers off the coin again almost like he was embarrassed as well. “I like having you around too,” he whispers. _Most_ of the time, but he’ll keep that to himself.

_good then I guess_

“You make it easier, being here.”

 _only hard ‘cause you don’t make friends_ The coin moves faster, jerking out from under his fingers _. DON’T CRY_

Ren rubs his eyes, ridding them of the tears that had welled up. “Sor—” The coin shoots out as if it’s been flicked, pinging off his knee. Ren gasps, then scowls across the paper at the emptiness that now has a name. “Maybe! Better! You’re not all the way here? You’re mean!” After a moment, the coin slides back onto the paper, again jiggling over the ‘ha’. Ren stares grumpily at it for another beat but then breaks into giggles.

Ruri’s voice calls from the hallway: “Hey! Whatcha laughing at? I’m coming in!”

“Ah! One…one second!” Frantically, he shoves the paper under his bed, then turns back. “Later?” he whispers. And then on impulse, he raises his hand.

Warmth presses against it. Ren smiles shyly and then reluctantly drops the contact and rushes to find a plausible reason to have been laughing in his room by himself.

If Ruri notices that he’s a little flushed or the presence radiating sulky resentment from the corner, she doesn’t comment.

* * *

 ➰

Even if they can’t talk, Yuu still finds plenty of things to do with his new friend. If he reads something and Rei seems interested, he’ll spread it out so they can both see, tells him to tap his shoulder when he’s done with each page. Rei watches him play videogames; feeling that shivery excitement beside him makes it that much better when he beats a boss or gets a new high score.

And, of course, there’s baseball.

“You like this, right?” Yuu’s _supposed_ to be cleaning his room, but as per usual has gotten distracted. He holds up the baseball he’s just found under a pile of clothes (clean?) and after a moment chill fingers brush his. “Me too! Didja used to play?” No response of course, but the buzz of happiness from in front of him is answer enough. “Wonder if we can play... Can you move it?”

He sets the ball down on the floor and takes half a step back; after a moment, it wobbles, then rolls to bounce off his toes.

“Great job!” He grins, picking the ball back up, sitting down. “Here, sit over there, and I’ll roll it to you. See if you can stop it.”

The first time it just goes sailing through to bounce off his wall. Rei’s embarrassed disappointment fills the room, but Yuu is undeterred, scrambling to pick up the ball.

“Let’s try again! I aim okay?”

Sitting back down, he rolls the ball (slower this time) along the same course. This time, it slows and finally stops. “Cool, you did it! Now, roll it back.” Rei dutifully sends the ball back to him, and Yuu returns it; again, it doesn’t stop immediately, but it _does_ stop. “See, you got it! We just gotta work on your ghost muscles, then we can play catch for real!”

He’s not entirely prepared for the impact that hits his chest, the barely-tangible arms wrapping around him, squeezing lightly. “Hey, you’re pretty burly already!”

If he’s careful, he can feel the outline of Rei’s body, feel the point where the early winter chill turns into the frigidness of his friend; Yuu does his best to hug back. “That makes you real happy, huh?”

Abruptly, Rei pulls away. Yuu scans the room, curious: he’s still there, just… And then one of his bats, leaning against his desk, slowly slides over and clatters to the floor. “You wanna bat? I’m no good pi—” he starts, uncertainly. The bat wobbles, then rolls towards him. Yuu stares at it for half a beat; as soon as he reaches out to touch it, the ball rolls over to _clink_ against it. “Oh, _you_ wanna pitch? AWESOME!”

This time, Rei outright knocks him over; Yuu giggles, then makes a mock-stern face. “Hey, caaaaareful, or my mom’s gonna come!” He beams up at where, so far as he can tell, Rei’s still sitting on him. “MAN, my very own pitcher! I bet you’re the _best_ ghost friend anybody’s got!”

They practice almost every day, just a few minutes here and there so Rei doesn’t get ghost-tired (neither of them are sure that’s even a thing but it’s funny to talk about, and anyway, Yuu tends to get bored, and Rei often seems to have Important Ghost Business to attend to elsewhere, so better to keep it short). “Wish you could tell me where you go. It’s okay, though! Wanna try lifting it again? Good job! GHOST HIGH-FIVE!”

* * *

➰

The Angel Board works okay except that it’s slow. The third time they use it, the first thing Abe says is _kanji_. Mihashi sketches in a few basic ones in the blank spaces on the paper, but after they’ve talked a few more times, Abe seems to be getting more and more frustrated.

_wish you could just hear me_

“You talk?!”

_yeah but you don’t hear_

“Sorry.” Abe _pinches_ him this time.

_can’t be helped wanna add more kanji_

Mihashi starts a new board, but it's already started to get crowded. And anyway, past a certain point, the kanji that seem logical to him aren’t always what Abe wants, but trying to understand which ones he  _does_ want is challenging. And then he’ll yank on Ren's hair and get all grumpy and unpleasant.

Exasperated, Abe tries to pick up the pen himself. But it’s a lot tougher to hold something up _and_ manipulate it precisely. (Ren wonders if some of that is because he’s lost his temper, but he decides not to suggest that.) As the pen wiggles, starts to fall yet again, Ren sticks his hand out, steadies it.

They freeze like that for a moment, Ren barely daring to breathe.

And then, light pressure, and when he relaxes his arm, Abe guides him through writing what he recognises quickly as the kanji for ‘place’. He doesn’t push ahead, though, lets him help. He breathes out when they finish, then gasps in a startled breath when one of his spare sheets of paper rustles towards them.

_why don’t we just do this? little faster._

He stares down at the kana written in a hand not his own for a moment, forgetting that he should be answering. It’s difficult to focus, all he can think about is the chill body pressed close to his right side, and he can _feel_ , feel his other hand on the back of the chair, feel fingers curled tight around his own, feel his presence, his _size_ (he’s still larger, even now? Do ghosts grow?) that makes him want to just… _lean_ a little against him. Flushed, he nods. “Yeah, this is…this is good.”

It becomes a haven, something to look forward to when he gets home, something outside of himself to lose himself in for an hour or so. They talk about things that happened that day, about Abe’s past, about stuff they learned in class (Abe pays more attention than HE does, and Ren doesn’t really get why; it’s not like ghosts need to get good grades), and of course, about baseball, about strategy and other things that fascinate Abe but go a little over Ren’s head. But he still likes when he talks about them, likes watching the words fill the lines of the special notebook he keeps tucked behind a drawer in his desk (where Ruri PROBABLY won't find it). Likes the feel of Abe’s hand on his.

At first, he sits at his desk properly, but that means that Abe has to bend weirdly (do ghosts get stiff?) So Abe suggests they sit on the floor together. Or on Ren’s bed, maybe, so they’re comfortable. Ren’s pretty sure that the excitement he feels when he leans back against his headboard, notebook set on a stiffer book on his knee, and feels Abe cozy up beside him, he’s _pretty_ sure he’s only supposed to feel that sort of thing for girls.

Ren doesn’t talk about himself much because he’s kind of shy and Abe’s there to see it all anyway. Abe has to draw it out of him and be in a patient enough mood to deal with the (usually halting and vague) response. But Ren finds out all sorts of interesting things about Abe’s “life” now. How he doesn’t like watching people eat because it makes him jealous (although he’s always been careful to remind Ren about eating if he forgets), how he’s frustrated he won’t ever get to play at Koushien (to which Ren responds, “Um! If I…if I ever…there, you’ll…with me!” and wins himself an affectionate hair ruffle). About the perks and inconveniences of inhabiting an indefinite body that shifts and changes with his thoughts and sometimes dissolves into indistinctness if he doesn’t think about it for too long.

About how, the farther he gets from Ren, the more fuzzy the world gets, outlines blurring and colours fading. It sounds terrifying, and Ren tells him so, and after a moment, Abe responds that yeah, it is, which is why he stopped leaving so much.

_but it’s okay I can always find you it’s like there’s a compass in my chest that always points to you_

And then they both get embarrassed and Ren suddenly remembers that he was supposed to do laundry.

The next time they talk, Ren asks him if that means he can’t see his family. Abe doesn’t respond; after a second, Ren realises he’s no longer holding the pen with him (though he still presses close against his side).

“Um…does…does Abe want to…we could…I could go there with you? And just…I’d just wait outside until…until Abe is done.”

Abe’s gratitude hits him like a wave, and it occurs to Ren that while Abe has always been very good at taking care of _him_ , no one takes care of Abe anymore.

They mostly only talk in the safety of his room using the notebook, but sometimes Abe will talk to him in class, too. If he’s in a good mood and Ren’s not getting a concept, he’ll help, finding different ways of explaining things that sometimes make more sense than what the teacher’s saying or finding some way of bringing baseball into it (even if it’s occasionally just a few bad drawings of balls and mitts in the margins).

And when Ren’s pitching, sometimes, he’ll talk to him. Sometimes he’ll take his hand and trace _nice pitching_ out on his thigh.

Or at least he does up until Hatake finally figures out the gesture and tells everybody what a big head Ren has, going around telling himself ‘nice’ after those shitty slow balls. Of course, Ren doesn’t find out about it until AFTER they’ve played another few practice games and everybody’s got a chance to watch him do it.

It’s yet another wedge between him and the rest of the team. Even _Kanou_ gives him a disappointed look, and it hurts, it hurts and it’s miserably lonely, until he gets home and Abe says _gotta hand it to that ape I wouldn’t have thought he’d be smart enough to read upside down_. Ren giggles even though he’s still crying, and then Abe says _it’ll be okay_ and he almost believes it and even though they don’t talk after that they keep holding hands for a long time.

* * *

 ➰

It doesn’t take long for it to occur to Yuu that Rei could lift things other than a baseball. They spend the entirety of a rare afternoon home alone just running from room to room at his house and getting him to pick up different things, leaving Yuu practically rolling on the floor with the hilarity of seeing a toilet brush floating mid-air.

He’s interrupted by a text from a friend. Yuu answers it, then stares at his phone, feeling stupid.

“Can you press these?” He holds it out, supporting its weight.

_yyew yes_

“COOL!” The first question is obvious. “So, what’s your REAL name?”

_Mihashi Ren_

“Oh.” Yuu pouts. “I thought you’d have a cooler name! How’d you die?”

_drowned_

“Groooooooooss! What the heck happened? Can’t you swim?” But Mihashi won’t answer, and after a while Yuu realises he’s gone. “Touchy! Geeez.” 

He’s not willing to completely drop the subject, though. He DOES wait a couple weeks before he brings it up again. “So…if ya drowned, that mean you’re all squidgy and watery, then? Hey, do you have a pet fish ghost? That’d be pretty cool!”

_no I just look like me I think I mean I don’t really pay attention but when I think about it I look like me??_

“Laaaaaaaaaame. You should at least get a fish ghost for a pet. Maybe some seaweed or something, for effect.”

_I didn’t drown in the sea!_

“Hey, you told me something!” Yuu grins in Mihashi’s general direction; he shrinks away, distressed. Change the subject. “Don’t you look at least a little bit ghosty? You got feet?”

 _not really and usually yes??_ Yuu looks disappointed until Mihashi pokes cool toes against his shin. _but! but I can kind of change a bit! like before we played catch, I didn’t have my glove, but when I think I should have my glove, it’s there? It's not here now I don't know where it is when it's not_

“That doesn’t make sense. Buuuuuut it’s pretty cool! Then again, I guess ghost stuff doesn’t HAVE to make sense… Can you do other stuff, or just the Magically Appearing Baseball Glove?”

_not really sorry I’m a crummy ghost_

“Hah! You’re great! And besides, you’re _my_ ghost, so that already makes you best! I bet you’re better than all the other ghosts combined! Wait, _are_ there other ghosts?”

_yeah but they scare me so I don’t talk to them_

“You’re _scared_ of other ghosts?” Yuu collapses laughing. Mihashi types something else, but Yuu’s not paying attention, so Mihashi drops the phone on him. He eventually stops laughing long enough to read it, but when he does it just sets him off worse than before.

_some of them are very cross!_

“Cross? _Cross?_ Are they all scary, with like fangs and stuff?”

Mihashi sits or lies down beside him, cool on his left side. _no just kind of like if a regular person’s mad?? except worse there’s one near school and the whole street is full of her sadness she’s very old and she can’t remember how to feel anything else anymore_

“Yeah, I think I know the place...” Yuu squinches up his mouth, thinking about it; he'd always avoided walking down the street, but he could never say why. “Anyway, that’s lame! If _I_ become a ghost, I wanna be SUPER fierce looking, scare the crap outta all my grandkids!”

_I don’t want that!_

“Eh?”

_don’t want you to be a ghost_

He grins over at the coolness beside him. “What, you want me to just disappear, or something?”

_no! don’t want you to die!_

Yuu blinks at the phone, then over at Mihashi, and even though his tone’s still light, his eyes are serious. “I think that’s not really an option, y’know. I mean, I’ll do my best! But it’ll happen some day, even if _you_ don’t want it to.” Mihashi seems more sad at the prospect of Yuu’s death than he did talking about his own. “But it won’t be so bad! Then I bet we can play catch all the time!”

_yeah!_

“And we won’t have to do homework or chores or ANYTHING! Hey, you got it pretty good, actually!”

_not really Abe makes me study with him_

Yuu laughs, then stares at the phone. “Who’s that?”

Embarrassed agitation and silence.

“I’m not gonna be mad, or anything! You have another friend? Is he a ghost, too?”

_no he’s alive like you_

“So _that’s_ where you go!”

A hesitation.

_yeah_

“Why didn’t you tell me about him before?” More nervous silence. “Did you think I’d be mad, or something?”

_yes_

“That’d be weird. You’re allowed to have more than one friend, geez! Does _he_ know about _me?_ ”

_no_

Yuu frowns disapprovingly. “That kinda hurts my feelings, y’know! Not like I expect you to talk about me alla time, but makes me feel like I’m not important to you.”

_you are! you’re really important to me!_

“Yeah, I’m just saying, doing that makes it _feel_ like I’m not.”

_I'm sorry_

"'S okay, I guess."

There’s an awkward silence. Then, _I don’t talk to him actually_

“What? Not even...?” Yuu jiggles the phone.

_no_

“Why not?”

A pause.

_it’s scary_

“But talking to me is no big deal? Geez, how cool _is_ this guy?!”

Another pause, longer, but this time Mihashi seems…happy.

_he’s really cool! he’s really smart and brave and he can play baseball too he can’t bat as well as Yuu-kun but still pretty good and he’s a catcher and he used to catch for a really_

“Wow, geeeeeeeez, I get it! He’s the coolest! I can’t compete with all that.” Yuu can’t help feeling a _little_ envious, but he still smiles at Mihashi, enjoying how excited he seems. “Unless I learn to catch too!”

More bubbly excitement from Mihashi. _wow I bet Yuu-kun would be great at catching too!_

“Don’t just _say_ that!” He smiles broader anyway. “Anyway, you should talk to him, too. I bet it’d make him happy. Do you at least try and play catch with him?”

_wanna wait until I can do it better_

“I guess that makes sense… You don’t think he’d wanna help you get stronger, too?”

A pause. _do you think he’d want to?_

“How the heck should I know? Give it a try. Hey, I hope I get to meet him someday!”

Mihashi doesn’t answer, just drops the phone and hugs him.

* * *

➰

Today, after Ren pitched _another_ practice game without signs, Abe had suggested they work out a way for _him_ to give them. ( _bet I’m way better at calling than that unimaginative idiot anyway)_

So they’d spent about half an hour out in the garden after he’d finished pitching as Abe tried signaling with various objects. But anything that would escape others’ notice would be too hard for Ren to see. Eventually, blushing, Ren suggested Abe could signal by touching him, like when he wrote on him. He wouldn't be able to see the batter as clearly from the mound (or at least close to it), but...

He expected him to say no, regretted suggesting such a thing the moment the words were out of his mouth. Partly because he knew that mostly, he just wanted Abe to touch him more. But Abe seemed pleased, even grabbed his hand to write _great idea!_ on his leg.

And then pressed a single finger against his back. _fastball_ Then a closed fist. _curve_ Then a fist with the thumb extended. _shoot_ _hey might be easier inside_ Ren was perplexed for a moment until Abe squeezed his hand a couple times, dragging it through a vague writing gesture, and then he nodded, tidied up his pail of balls, and headed inside. Abe wanted to give him signs AND talk to him about it...!

He then spent another gloriously awkward twenty minutes sitting tensely on his bed while they straightened out the signs and checked to make sure Ren could interpret them properly. Abe kept asking him if he was okay, he was shaking a little, had he eaten, to which Ren just mutely nodded or shook his head. He couldn’t quite lie, but he certainly wasn’t going to explain the _real_ reason he was so worked up to have Abe touching him like this, fingers sliding and pressing over his back, leaving him with goosebumps and a bit of a boner.

But eventually, Abe seems confident he had the signs down. Ren’s a little disappointed they’re done with that for now. But there’s the promise of having Abe’s hands on him like that again in future. And anyway, they’re still practically snuggled together to write, so he really shouldn’t complain… Just, there’s always that _ache_ in him for something more.

But he was supposed to be asking a question from earlier. “So. I can feel… Abe-kun can do this? But…but a pen is hard? I don’t… Because! Because my arm’s bigger, but…”

Abe starts before he can finish. _I don’t know. it’s just easier to do stuff to YOU. guess it’s just part of whatever special soul connection thing we have._

“O-oh…” He hunches over, dipping his chin, blushing.

_what are you okay_

Ren frowns at the words for a moment, confused, then, “N-no! I mean, yes! I’m ha… I… When Abe-kun…about that, I…” He curls over further, dropping the pen and wrapping his arm across his stomach, feeling agitated confusion from beside him. He _can’t_ say something like that, or Abe will know how he feels! And then…

And then what? Perhaps it’s just his quickly rising panic making his mind go blank, perhaps it’s just that he feels really close to Abe right now, but…he can’t actually think of any concrete bad thing that would happen. Maybe…maybe Abe would pull his hair?? Not like he could TELL anyone… He slides his arms around his thighs, dislodging the notebook as he pulls his legs up against his chest and hides his face against his knees. Abe’s so nice to him (mostly), he takes care of him and worries about him and he’s going to give him signs even though Hatake won’t, and maybe, even though there’s no chance he’ll return the feelings, maybe he’ll be a little bit happy…maybe…

His blush is spreading down his neck as he mumbles, “’M h-happy… L-l-like…y…” into his arms.

Abe’s even _more_ agitated.

No, this was a mistake, he’s made a mistake, he shouldn’t have told him. What if he hates him now? Abe will _definitely_ hate him. And then…what if he left? What if Ren never got to see (feel?) him again?? No, he messed up, this was the _worst_ idea, he needs to undo this somehow…

Frantic rustling beside him; he tilts his head enough to watch the pen waver upright, and then Abe scrawls _wHAt I Cn’t heaaR yu wat’S goINg n_ across two pages of notebook.

Ren could almost cry with relief.

Up until it occurs to him that Abe won’t just let him not answer. He’s starting to hyperventilate.

There’s a light touch on his hand.

He’s forgetting, forgetting that Abe’s been with him for over seven years now, forgetting that he sees _everything_ about Ren, everything that’s horrible and pathetic and ugly about him, and he’s still here, still cares about him at least a little.

So what’s one more pathetic, detestable thing?

He wants desperately to let go of his legs and take Abe’s hand like he has so many times before, needs the comfort, but he can’t seem to move and anyway, that might make this even worse. He’s pretty sure he couldn’t stand it if Abe ripped his hand out of his grasp after this…

Ren lifts his head a little, squinching up his face, and blurts out, “I LIKE YOU!”

He waits, chest heaving, until he remembers Abe can’t just answer. He’s not sure what to do about that, not sure if Abe will even want to touch him now, so he just slowly curls over again with tears welling in his eyes.

Only to feel fingers press against his chin, gently but inexorably tilting his head up.

He can’t make himself open his eyes and a hot tear rolls down his cheek.

It cools suddenly.

Lips, he can feel lips against his cheek.

This is what it’s like to be kissed?

He hiccups in several breaths, trying to stop the tears, but it’s not working so he just turns his head anyway. At least a ghost probably won’t care if he’s got a runny nose.

Faint, but there, his lips brush Abe’s, an almost electric feel to the air, and then he can feel his nose, his cheek, his chin, but it’s way less interesting than the soft squish of his lips, and they’re kissing, he told Abe that he liked him and now they’re KISSING! Ren feels fresh tears well up and lets them fall, uncaring.

There’s a touch on his arm, sliding down; he releases his legs, slides his arm clear, and then laces his fingers with Abe’s. They’re cool, but not as cool as before, and more distinct, more solid than normal. He rubs his thumb over his palm wonderingly.

Which is about when Ruri bursts through his door. “RENREN, GUESS WHA— What’re you doing?”

Too flustered to even tell her off for the nickname, Ren, in one relatively smooth gesture, releases Abe’s hand, flings the notebook off the bed, and turns to look at her, red-faced, grateful that he was _mostly_ facing away from the door.

Something _vaguely_ plausible? “S-stretch…ing??” Ruri gives him a suspicious look, and he can feel Abe’s incredulous amusement. Which transforms to outrage when Ruri shrugs and comes into the room anyway.

She flops onto the foot of his bed and proceeds to tell him about the show her art club is planning for the end of term and try and get his opinion on what she should paint, kittens? Or maybe herself as a cool magical girl... She yells at him after a while, though, because Ren just smiles goofily at her, has to be prompted to answer questions multiple times. It’s hard to focus on her when there’s an invisible arm wrapped possessively around his waist, a cheek resting against his shoulder.

Ren’s saved from her growing ire by the call to supper. He stares at his food resentfully until it occurs to him that the sooner he crams it in his face, the sooner he can go back to his room. And Abe. Who probably doesn’t hate him! Even though…even though he said…

But when he gets to his room, it’s conspicuously empty.

He messed up. Abe just did that to be nice, did that because Ren's the only one he can talk to, and now he regrets it and he'll never come back, he'll just be lost out in that cold, grey fog because it's better than being around Ren.

It's been a while since he's cried himself to sleep.


	3. Silt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw warn on this chapter!

Each month without him feels like an eternity.

Ren’s grades suffer, something more than one of his teachers feel the need to chastise him about. Loudly. In front of the rest of the class. He bears it silently, tears blurring the test Hibino-sensei slaps on his desk, his chest burning with the agony of so many pairs of eyes locked on him. It’s not like being on the mound, the mound at least feels like a protective aegis even if the stares leveled at him are just as hostile, just as gloating each time there’s the miserable crack of the bat. He’s not sure why they still look for more excuses to hate him.

Ruri complains that he’s grumpy and no fun anymore. It just meets with sullen silence and a closed bedroom door. Her mother takes her aside for a talk about Moods and teenagers and how she shouldn’t expect Renren to play with her like they were children forever.

One day in early August, Ren races home from school, drops his bike in the yard, and sprints around back to his target.

Sobbing hoarsely, he tears at it, rips the tape and the stupid drawing. Pulls it free from the ground to cast it down with a dissatisfying rattle and thump on the cold, hard earth.

He stands over it, panting. Then glances around frantically, glad of the screening bushes edging the yard. He drops to his knees, trying to right the frame; it’s not even heavy but it just twists and wrenches out of his hands. He gives it another half-hearted tug before curling forward, apologising over and over.

* * *

 

“Look, okay, but this book says that in order to act on an object, you need mass or energy. So he’s gotta be something _real_ , he’s gotta have some kind of substance. So does that mean he’s—”

The monk sits back on his heels and pushes back a floppy canvas hat, wiping his brow before yanking it back down again. “Kid, I’m trying to garden here. Y’know, meditate. _Quietly._ ”

“You said you’d help me!”

“I _told_ you that you should bring me _easier_ problems, not,” he waves a trowel at Takaya and his pile of library books, “ _this_ bullshit. Here, eat this, tell me if it’s any good.” He tugs something free from the plant and tosses it over his shoulder. Takaya catches the small tomato.

Takaya glares at the back of the monk’s head for a minute before putting it in his mouth. Tart and sweet bursts on his tongue, and that smell, the scent of sun and growing and soil and greenness lingering even as he swallows it. “It’s good.”

“That all?” The monk turns to raise an eyebrow at him; Takaya scowls and nods, staying stubbornly silent. “Eh, you’re such an unpleasant boy. Bet you’re useless in the kitchen… Bring me that basket, okay?”

He does, though he brings another of his books with him, crouching beside the monk and holding it open to an explanation of neuron function.

“And this, here! How can he think if it requires all this stuff? Not that he seems to think _much_ … But see this! Is my ghost electric or something?”

The monk turns to look between Takaya and the book, pressing his lips together, forehead wrinkling, and Takaya’s perplexed until he lurches forward with a guffaw.

“Changed my mind! You can come by whenever you like. Electric ghosts…! Here, fetch that bucket, too, help me pick these.”

Red-faced, Takaya considers refusing. But he huffily crosses the garden to drop the book on top of the others, grabs the bucket, then crouches back down. “How do I know if they’re ripe?” he asks sullenly.

“They don’t need to be ripe. Find ones that’re heavy and at least a little red. Like this,” he cradles one lightly, not picking it, “feels firm, but not hard, and good colour at the bottom…” Pulling it off the vine, he hands it to Takaya.

Takaya takes it, squeezing it experimentally and examining it, then drops it in the basket, turning to the vines. The first one comes off in his hand, and he holds it out to the monk. “This one…?”

“Yeah, those ones, too.”

Examining it, Takaya squeezes it, curious. His thumb squishes through into the warmth inside.

The monk looks over at his offended noise, then chuckles. “Guess you’re eating that one, too, kid!”

Takaya pops it into his mouth, licking the thin juice off his fingers, then resumes picking over the vines.

“I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there for your friend, somewhere. Picking before they’re ripe, then finding new life after…” The monk smiles at him; Takaya blinks back at him impassively. “Or not,” he sighs.

They move in opposite directions down the line of plants. Takaya’s lost enough in the task and background puzzling over the things he’s been reading that he initially doesn’t realise _he’s_ not the source of the nervously curiousity that washes over him. He looks up when he feels a familiar light touch on his shoulder. He half-smiles in greeting and his friend seems to calm a little, enough to crouch down beside him. One of the tomatoes on the vine jiggles and then pulls free.

Takaya whispers, “You wanna help?” pushing the bucket over a little.

“Eh? You say something, kid?”

He freezes.

And so does his friend, conspicuously midway through picking another tomato.

Abruptly, he lets go of it, leaving the vine rustling, and even if Takaya can’t _see_ him, he knows he’s about to flee. “No, he _knows_ about you, dumbass! Stay _put_.” He grabs for him, manages to catch hold of…something…cloth? The ghost tries to squirm out of Takaya’s grasp but stops. And then redoubles his efforts. Tightening his grip, Takaya grits his teeth—when the hell did he get so _strong?_ —and then discovers the reason for his friend’s renewed franticness when the monk appears beside him, reaching out to the air near Takaya’s hand.

He jerks his hand back when he encounters the cold air, extra frigid against the late August heat. “Hey, there’s really something there!”

“ _Told_ you.” Takaya doesn’t particularly try to hide his resentfulness.

The monk crouches down, smiling at the empty air in front of them. “Hey, there, lil’ fella…”

“He’s not a dog!” he snaps indignantly, "Or a little kid!" At least, he thinks.

Chill fingers are working in between his hand and the fabric, and he resists until it becomes evident the ghost’s trying to take Takaya’s hand, not dislodge him. He steadfastly ignores the way the monk eyes his changed grip; if he can accept that his friend exists, then he can just deal with the fact that ghosts like to hold hands.

“Okay, well, how am I _supposed_ to address a ghost? I gotta admit, you’ve got one up on me here, kid. Somehow, trotting out all the ‘most honourable blah-blah-blah’ stuff seems inappropriate when he’s helping me pick tomatoes.”

“Doesn’t really matter when he can’t talk.” The clamped grip on his hand is loosening a little; Takaya smiles reassuringly at his friend. He’s got questions, though, turns back to the monk. “Can you feel him? Or just the cold?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like right now, I can tell he’s curious about you. Can you?”

The monk frowns at him and then at his friend consideringly. “Nope. If you didn’t tell me something was there, I wouldn’t know. Woulda just thought it was a weird cold spot.” He thinks for a moment. “I guess… I can sort of feel something, but I’d never notice it if you didn’t point it out. And,” he begins, eyeing Takaya’s hand again, “when I touched him just now, I could only feel that he was there, but it looks like you can touch him just like a regular person.”

“Not always. Seems like only when he lets me. Don’t know why he didn’t pull that trick just now… Guess he’s more curious than he is scared. But most of the time, we can touch each other.” His cheeks feel warm; he does his best to ignore it. “You think it’s us, or just me _?_ I’ve never felt other ghosts…”

“Dunno, kid. Maybe a bit of both? Like I keep telling you, they don’t prepare us for this kind of thing.”

Excited agitation from in front of them. His friend plucks at his arm, then his shorts, the pocket. Takaya frowns, holding his arm out of the way. He inhales sharply as his friend leans in, slipping a hand into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He _really_ hopes the monk is caught up enough in watching the phone float in mid-air that he won’t notice the way Takaya blushes. Whoever the ghost is, since he’s gotten over his initial shyness, he doesn’t seem to understand personal space _at all_. Not that he’s particularly complaining.

His phone flips open and then jiggles like someone’s pressing buttons, leaving them both watching impatiently. Leaving Takaya with nothing to do but think.

His friend touches him a _lot_ , and even if it’s just because they have no other way to communicate… But that doesn’t really explain _all_ of it. Sure doesn’t explain why he’ll come to him most nights and lie next to him at least until Takaya falls asleep. Sometimes, it’s because he’s doing his soothing-touchy… _thing_ , but other times he’ll just lie there, a cool presence on top of the blanket next to him, a familiar comfort like the weird plush frog Shun thinks no one knows he still sleeps with. And if he pretends to sleep, if he puts his hand out _just so_ , invisible fingers will lace with his, brush cool over his cheek. It’s weird, and a little bit creepy. Even if he also really, really likes it.

Takaya glances out of the corner of his eye at the monk. He’d kind of like to talk to someone about that too, but…

But it’s _weird_.

And that’s not even getting into the times his friend has shown up when Takaya was partway through…doing things.

The first time, he’d snatched his hand away guiltily and felt horrifically embarrassed for days. But the next time, he just kept going, pretending he hadn’t noticed him. Pretending he couldn’t feel his rapt attention from the foot of the bed. Pretending it wasn’t turning him on, pretending he didn’t sometimes wish his friend would crawl up to where he’s thrown back the covers, where he’s sweaty and panting, head shoved back against his pillow and shorts shoved down around his knees so they're out of the way and only a _little_ bit because he wants to be on display, come up and replace his hand with one that’s colder but good just the same, and he really, really should _not_ be thinking about that stuff here. Takaya glances over at the monk again. Definitely not telling him about _any_ of that stuff.

Finally, much to his relief, the phone turns towards them: _other people feel more ghosts! but not everyone can feel them it seems? but not sure_

Takaya stares mutely at the phone, then at the air in front of him.

“When the hell did you learn to do _that?_ When were you gonna share _that_ piece of information with me, huh?” He reaches aggravated hands out, grabbing for his friend’s head. He recoils, dropping the phone. Takaya grits out an exasperated noise. “Don’t throw things!” He snatches it up, shoving it back towards his friend.

“Well, I can feel _that!_ Congratulations, kid, you scared a ghost.” The monk chuckles, slapping him on the shoulder.

“He’s like this all the time!” His friend reluctantly takes the phone again. Takaya takes a deep breath, rubbing his forehead before gritting out, “I’m _happy_ , you dolt.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

He ignores the comment. “Why didn’t you talk to me sooner?”

_shy_

“What? You’ve seen me _naked_ , why would you be shy about talking to me?” He hates that he’s still blushing but there’s nothing he can do about that. Just hope that the monk’s still transfixed by his friend.

“Yeah, I wonder why he wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to _you_ ,” the monk deadpans. Takaya glowers silently. Sighing, the monk addresses his friend. “So. Since you can talk, let’s start this over. I’m Sato Shiori. Nice to meet you.” The monk inclines his head, then watches expectantly.

_I’m Mihashi Ren nice to meet you too_

“That’s a nice name! …Hey, kid, what’s _your_ name, anyway?”

“Abe Takaya.” He's never sure what the hell makes a name 'nice', and has a suspicion it's just something people say. Adults are dumb.

“Hah! What a stodgy name. Suits you.” Takaya squints at him, but Sato has already turned back to Mihashi. “So! You say other people can sense you…? You mean, like psychics and stuff?”

Mihashi starts typing, then pauses for a long while; Takaya’s on the verge of grabbing the phone to see what he’s written so far when he finally finishes and then shows it to them.

_no just my friend Tajima-kun and sometimes other people can tell I’m here?? but also he said he knew about another ghost that I don’t like?? so I guess he can sense more than just me_

Takaya frowns, opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Mihashi turns the phone again, typing quickly. _sorry I didn’t tell Abe-kun about him before this! it’s okay?_

“Of course it’s okay, stupid, when would you have…?” His frown deepens. “Wait, you talk to _him_ , though?” He crosses his arms, unable to help the pang of jealousy he feels.

_yeah_

_we’ve talked for a little while_

Something cold and ugly settles in Takaya’s stomach.

“You _do_ seem kind of unapproachable, kid, to be fair.”

“No one asked you!” Takaya snaps before he thinks about it, then grimaces, dipping his head. “Sorry…”

Sato gives him an arch look. “We’re sitting in dirt and fertilizer while talking to a ghost on a cellphone. I feel the circumstances allow a little leeway in terms of politeness." Sato slaps him on the shoulder perhaps a bit more firmly than necessary. "So! Mihashi. Were you listening to what Abe said, earlier? You got any opinion on why you can think?”

Mihashi seems to consider for a minute. _don’t know?_

“Well. _That_ was productive,” Takaya snarks out. Sato frowns at him, clearing his throat; Takaya blanches internally though he keeps a neutral expression. “I wanna know if you have some kind of physical body. Because otherwise you don’t make any sense.”

_I’m sorry_

“Eh?”

_for not making sense??_

_because also there’s a glove that doesn’t make sense_

_and actually lots of things_

Takaya stares at the empty air in front of them, frown deepening as he opens his mouth. Sato beats him to it, though, saying, dryly, “I think he’ll survive a little nonsense. So! What do you think, kid? Are you electric?”

_no?_

“Shocking.”

Takaya gives Sato an intensely pained look.

Sato manages to direct the conversation to other things. Tells them more than Takaya _ever_ wanted to know about vegetables and makes him relate almost the entire plot of the novel they’ve been reading in class. Mihashi listens with polite attention, always close at Takaya’s side or with his fingers brushing against him as if he still expects Sato to bite. Takaya keeps glancing at his stack of books, not sure how to bring them back to more pressing topics. He’s pretty sure Sato notices, too, but the old bastard just keeps yammering about the weather and inconsequential stories about his own school days.

Even though he leaves with a reused grocery bag full of vegetables, Takaya can’t help thinking what a giant waste of time. His resentfulness feels a little hollow, but he hangs onto it anyway. Just like Mihashi (he has a name now, _Mihashi_ ) clings around his waist from the back of his bike like it’s Takaya that’s in danger of drifting away.

* * *

 

Exactly one hundred-fifty-seven days, three hours, and thirty two minutes after the last time Ren felt Abe, he sits bolt upright in bed.

Abe is _there_ , he’s there in the room. Though faint and oddly cautious… Ren can’t breathe, just stares into the corner where Abe is, fingers clenched on his blanket, unsure what to say.

Before he can think of anything, Abe moves closer until he’s standing beside the bed. Ren pushes himself on his knees, turning to him with wide eyes, and then, uncertain but desperate to feel him, to know he’s really _there_ , reaches out.

Concepts like absolute zero tend to fly over Ren’s head. He just cries out, snatching his hand back in pain.

Abe flits away, radiating distress in a way that’s unfamiliar and unnerving. “N-no! Cold! Was surprised!” Ren waves his arm, trying to reach him, but Abe’s too far. Ren stares into the darkness in frantic indecision for a moment, then flings himself out of bed to stumble and trip his way across the room to his desk. He gropes around in his hiding place for the notebook (edges of the pages showing the wear of many re-readings), and a pen, a pen! He finds one, then turns back with a tentative smile.

Only to have Abe, unimpressed, touch the back of his arm. Ren winces, but insists, “It…it doesn’t hurt!”

Another wave of doubt from in front of him.

“Maybe…maybe it hurts a little…” But he’s _not_ giving this up. "Ah, w-wait!"

He drops the book on his bed and scurries to his closet, digs out a sweater and hauls it on over his pyjamas. Finds a mismatched pair of gloves, and shrugs into his robe too for good measure, yanking both pairs of sleeves down over his hands. Flopping down on his bed and switching on his lamp, he waits expectantly, panting a little.

And waits.

“Please?” He’s a _little_ embarrassed by the way his voice cracks. But mostly he’s just terrified Abe will disappear back into the night or he’ll wake up from this dream like he has so many nights before.

But then a shift in the air, a frigid form settling beside him.

The only thing that’s surprising about the fact that Ren bursts into tears is that he hadn’t yet. Even though he can barely see, he still spreads the notebook on his knee and readies the pen, waiting, tugging the sleeves a little more firmly over his wrist.

Maybe it’s the gloves, but Abe seems to have more trouble than normal. Still, the first thing he writes is worth the wait.

_miSsed youu_

Ren chokes on a sob. “I miss…missed you, too! Wh…where…?” What he really wants to know is why, but he’s far too afraid to ask.

There’s a pause, during which time he tries to relax his arm more, make things easier for Abe.

_the REasoN I left_

Apparently, he didn’t need to ask; he bites his lip, waiting for Abe to finish.

_you shouldn’ttt feel that way about me_

Ren’s heart drops until he feels like his stomach is full of rocks. Abe thinks he’s gross, thinks he’s messed up. He should’ve _never_ thought he might feel the same, he was stupid to even imagine for a _moment_ —

_you should be with someone who’s alive_

Ren stares at the words, uncomprehending. “But! But it’s you who…!” Abe doesn’t respond, so Ren gathers up another burst of courage. “Don’t… _want_ anyone else! I d-d-don’t care!” His outburst just meets with faint distress. “Please…please, I just…you. Never want y…never want…go away again…” He can’t bring himself to say anything else.

If it wasn’t for the ache in his hand, he’d think Abe had left.

Then…

_I don’t ever wanna leave you again either_

Fresh tears start in Ren’s eyes, and then he doesn’t _care_ , doesn’t care about the cold, he just needs to get his arms around Abe, hold him tight for as long as he can. He’s indistinct, insubstantial in his arms, and cold, cold enough to freeze the tears on his cheeks, cold enough his lips are already chapping, cold enough that the air he draws in through him burns in his lungs, but none of it matters.

It takes him a moment to find Abe’s face, to cup his cheeks through the squishy barrier of fabric, but as soon as he’s at all certain he’s got ahold of him, he pulls him close and kisses him needily, insistently, Abe answering with equal intensity. The notebook slips to the floor as he shifts his legs, and no one misses it. They don’t need words for this moment, words could never come close to expressing the way they’ve ached for each other, the empty tightness in their chests that is now filling with happiness, a happiness that is so very, very hungry.

He strokes Abe’s face, his shoulders, down his arms, gentle and slow so he can be sure, so he can _really_ feel him. It’s fascinating: he can _feel_ the buzz of the noise Abe makes against his lips, but can’t hear it. Ren pulls back so he can touch his fingertips to Abe’s lips, then trail them down over his jaw to his throat, feel the vibration there as Abe leans in to claim another kiss, opening his mouth against Ren’s and sliding his tongue over his lower lip when he follows suit. Cold, so achingly cold, and he wonders if he’ll get brain freeze if they keep going like this, but it’s no matter, he doesn’t mind, with how good it feels as Abe’s tongue dips into his mouth, more and more distinct.

 _He_ might not care, but Abe’s obviously noticed the way he’s shivering. He tugs at the blankets, though he can’t quite pull them up. Ren draws back long enough to snuggle down under them, holding them up so Abe can, too. But when he drops the blanket, it just falls flat on the bed.

Abe takes his hand. _not enough energy_

“Oh…” Ren worries the edge of the blanket in his hand, comforted at least that Abe keeps hold of his other hand.

Abe leans over him, lips brushing Ren’s forehead. His heart pounds, his body pulled tense with need until Abe kisses his mouth. But it doesn’t relieve him, it just pulls the feeling tighter.

_Ren_

_do you trust me_

He nods, reaching up to fit his hand to the still uncertain curve of Abe’s neck, frustrated by the fabric and the cold that keeps them apart. “I trust you.” Abe seems to hang in the air above him, their joined hands now trapped between their bodies, and close, so close to his stiffening dick.

_you probably shouldn’t_

Abe’s lips move against his own, though, open soft on a single syllable, and for all that he can’t hear it, Ren can feel the ache and the ecstasy of it. He tips his chin up, catching Abe’s lips insistently. This truth, this one truth, this goodness that he thought was ripped away from him just when he’d finally held it, it spreads from his chest. Fire to banish the cold draping over him, or not banish but blend with, the borders of their bodies and the blankets only a faint illusion.

Abe shakes free of his hand, reaching down to just above his knee and pressing his fingers light, so light, through the fabric until they drag at Ren’s skin, up, up. And still so icy, aching and perfect and Abe’s lips parting, shaky for a moment before pressing more firmly. Ren strokes over the faint outline of Abe’s nape, and then in a rush, yanks the gloves off his hands. It aches, it aches, like pitching in the dead of winter, but it’s worth it, worth it to feel skin, to slide his hand down his shoulder. Almost as soon as his fingers encounter a shirt, it melts away like a forgotten dream, like cobwebs brushed aside. Ren gasps, other hand coming up to splay on Abe’s side, explore this new landscape because now that he thinks about it, Abe has never, never been bare in front of him, he has never touched these places ebbing against his fingertips. Will never see them.

Both of Abe’s hands now curl on his hips, push up his waist to his ribs, dragging his clothes with them but not high enough and the blanket in the way anyway. Ren squirms, hips hitching up and maybe all he feels is the resistance of the blanket but it’s good, so good, making his breath catch, his toes spread. He’s reluctant to give up his hold but Ren steels himself so he can shove and kick the blanket away.

Abe jerks back with a waft of disapproval. Ren gasps out, “Don’t care! I want…”

_put blankets back_

_won’t stop me_

Ren shivers, inhaling a fractured breath, but hurries to obey. He pulls them up under his chin, mind full of the way Abe’s body seemed to slip through all things but catch on Ren’s as if he were the only really real thing in his world. Abe nuzzles against his cheek, and it feels, it feels like he’s smiling, winter sunlight bleeding though to dapple Ren’s skin.

Abe drifts away, down, hands smoothing delicately over his skin. Ren lets his eyes fall shut because what’s there to see, anyway. All there is, all he needs, is feeling. Abe’s cheek against his belly, his love flooding over Ren such that he can’t understand why he ever doubted, why he ever feared. And now, now, when he shifts his hips restlessly, now Abe is a definite weight against his legs. Still vague, not like he imagines another person would be, but this is _his_ , this is his and Ren doesn’t want anything else.

Abe turns his head, kisses him softly through the blanket, diamond stars on his skin sending shivers down his spine. Abe takes his hand, kissing the centre of his palm, then traces _if it gets too mu—_

“I…I’ll tell you!” Ren clutches his hand up against his chest. “I’ll say! Or…or I’ll…like this…” He squeezes Abe’s hand twice in quick succession, only half-certain of what Abe intends to do and almost too awed to believe it.

Shifting his grip, Abe pulls his hand against his cheek so Ren can feel his nod. And then kisses his fingertips, the pads of his fingers. Abruptly, Abe releases his hand to grab for the other, burrowing his face against it, into it, and it’s hard to tell the difference between kisses and simple contact but it’s all delicious. He feels Abe’s lips against the tips of his fingers again, feels them open, feels the light tug. Like burying his hand in snow but so much more precious, he slides his fingers between his lips. Cold and arousal spider their ways up his arms, enough to make him gasp and Abe’s barely touched him yet.

As if following his thoughts, Abe slides his free hand down to palm his crotch. Ren slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle his startled cry. He can feel the press of Abe’s tongue, the vibration from his throat. Fingers tracing the shape of his dick, curious and adoring and too little yet for him to be squirming in so much ecstasy, but the mere thought is enough. Ren shoves his hand under the blankets, fingers shaky as he wriggles and pulls at his clothes until he can get his dick free, Abe’s fingers overlapping his own eagerly.

With a last just-tangible suck, Abe pushes himself back up to float over Ren’s body and claim his mouth, jerking him off with steady strokes. His body is more distinct, his lips and tongue squashing against Ren’s own, his teeth a strange discovery when Ren’s mouth falls open on a pant. Ren reaches up, wraps his arms around his waist, tries to pull him down against him. Abe slips out of his grasp, disappearing down the bed; Ren almost hears a sigh of breath, a syllable, _give_. He reaches after him, unwilling to lose any contact, fingertips slipping over cheek and ear and into hair and then clenching desperately when Abe’s lips slide around the head of his dick.

Abe pulls back immediately, groping for his hand. Ren shakes his head frantically. “Fine! I’m fine. Really.” He props himself up, staring down Abe’s doubt. When he sweeps his fingers over Abe’s palm, he can feel its rise and dip, can almost feel lines. It’s soft, and that seems…wrong. And yet he loves the sensation anyway.

Abe bumps his forehead against his belly, something that turns into Ren curling over with his fingers combing through Abe’s hair and the urgency in him blanketed with a soft calm. A calm that rips open the next second, leaving him gasping and clutching Abe close. There are tears at the corners of his eyes, and he doesn’t think he could explain this strange blend of wistfulness and guilt and grief even if Abe asked. But he doesn’t, just comes up to kiss Ren’s cheek, his own fingers slipping through his hair as he settles in Ren’s lap.

“Please…I…I’m okay…” He turns his head until Abe’s lips smush against his own. “…Are you?”

Abe doesn’t respond, only kisses him until Ren’s sure he won’t. And then slides down again, his arms wrapped around Ren’s waist. He nods, face pressed to his stomach, kisses him once more before slipping lower.

Ren leans back on one hand, gasping as Abe sucks him in slowly, his tongue wet-not-wet against the underside, the blurred sensation of his mouth and the blanket. One arm is still curled around Ren’s waist, up to splay a tense hand on his back, the other curled firmly on his dick, holding him steady. Ren does his best to stay still, stay quiet, just stuttered breaths and a tight noise when Abe pulls back enough to lave his tongue over the head. Abe’s fingers twitch on his back, and he does it again, licking and kissing the head and down the shaft, teasing and icy and making Ren’s breath catch in his throat. He can feel Abe’s rapt attention, his curiousity, his _own_ pleasure rushing in over Ren’s mind to break, throw him aloft on a sudden peak as Abe slides his lips down around his dick again.

Less curiousity now, more of a deep eagerness, a demanding focus. It’s intoxicating, has Ren panting, bracing hand curled into a fist while his other strokes aimlessly through Abe’s hair. With each suck, each drag of his lips, Abe drags Ren closer to that exquisite edge, drags him deeper and deeper until he doesn’t need to hold him anymore, until his hand is free to roam down Ren’s thigh. Abe’s not so cold anymore, just pleasing coolness on his skin that feels like it’s burning up, trailing down to his knee and then back up and when Ren flings back the blankets, catching briefly on a suspended form, this time, Abe doesn’t object, this time, he just hauls Ren’s leg over a deliciously solid shoulder and grabs his butt. Ren cries out, leaning back on both hands now and his hips rocking up randomly, encouraged by Abe’s fingers, by his relentless pace and the drag of his tongue. Ren bites his lips together, breathing hard through his nose, his body all tense arcs on the verge of collapse. Abe pushes on the back of his thigh, hand sliding back down to his butt and thumb sweeping along his crack and Ren’s body pulled so tight, so tight, frozen and trembling and choking back his cry as his dick pulses in his release.

Before he can even think of moving, Abe’s shrugging out from under his leg, bowling Ren back on the bed. His hard-on presses against Ren’s stomach, and even spent, Ren clutches at him, legs wrapping tight around Abe’s hips, his bare hips. But Abe simply nuzzles against his neck, kissing him lightly.

He frets silently until Abe lifts his head. Ren stares wide-eyed into the full emptiness. “Um! Um. I-I know I won’t be any… I'll do it wrong... I… But does…does Abe want…?”

Abe sinks back down, leisurely taking his hand. _later. you need sleep._

“But—”

 _no weird ideas. I’m tired too._ Abe shifts against him, luxuriant and heavy between his legs. _this is enough for now_

Ren hugs him close, frowning with worry. He doesn’t want to ask, but he doesn’t think he could sleep without knowing. He bites his lip hard, cheek pressed against Abe’s hair. “Abe will…still be here? In the…in the morning?”

Abe nods, then lifts his head, shifts up so he can press their foreheads together. Tears prick at Ren’s eyes again, such agonising happiness and relief and all he can do is move his lips mutely for a moment.

“Abe…” He nuzzles against him, trying to work up the courage to speak. “Abe, I l-love…I love you…” His cheeks burn hot, terror and excitement and hope swirling in his chest.

Abe grabs his hand, the characters a little shaky. _me too shit I mean I love you too._ He reaches up, cupping Ren’s face tenderly as he kisses him. Ren’s tears spill over, down into his hair and he can’t help smiling into the kiss. If he died tonight, he would die happier than he has ever been. He squeezes Abe tighter before finally letting his legs drop back down on the bed, his breath shuddering in and out. Abe takes his hand again. _come on quit it pull your blankets back up_ He rolls off Ren, wedging an insistent hand under his shoulder.

Ren sits up, reaching for the blankets and then plucking at his clothes. He strips out of the extra layers and pulls his pyjamas back into place before grabbing the blanket and drawing it up with a whoosh.

This time, this time, it comes down on two forms. Ren stares over, wondering, and then with a happy noise, rolls over, hands coming up to find Abe’s. Before he can, Abe shoves his hand into his hair, mussing it rough enough to make Ren gasp and then giggle.

“Can we…can we talk? More?”

_sleep_

Ren opens his mouth to protest but a hand brushes down his face, coaxing his eyes shut.

Abe holds his hand, stroking his back lightly until he falls asleep.

In the morning, over breakfast, Ruri asks him how the heck his lips got so chapped. Ren blushes, smiling down at his eggs, and mumbles something about it having been cold during practice.

"Huh. They weren't like that at supper last night... Weird." Ruri turns away to try and steal a piece of fruit from her brother.

Ren’s left blushing brighter, trying not to react when Abe bends down and smooches his cheek. Or when he takes his hand and traces out _I can taste you._


	4. Gutter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should prolly edit this more before posting but hey im a piece of shit what can you do

By the time Yuu’s fifteenth birthday comes, Mihashi can throw and usually catch, and they frequently sneak off to a little-used field belonging to a local high school with a bat and as many baseballs as Yuu can lay hands on. Even beyond the simple joy of doing something they both love so much together, it’s _way_ more fun for him batting when he can’t get any hints where the balls are coming from. It’d be even _better_ if they were faster…but he shouldn’t be greedy.

And sometimes in the blur of the swing, sometimes he _swears_ he can see a small figure. Caught in that awkward after-pitch pose, pale fluffy hair sticking out from under a white cap, eyes wide and a breathless smile curving his lips.

“You’re almost as little as me! No wonder you pitch so slow. We _really_ gotta work on your muscles!”

 _yeah!_ Mihashi fizzes in the air happily.

“Hey, can’t you just imagine yourself bigger?”

 _oh yeah…_ Yuu holds the phone for a moment, waiting patiently, frustrated he can’t see, until Mihashi finally takes it back. _I can, sort of, but I can’t hold it_

“Huh… Betcha look funny!”

_yeah! I think that’s part of it—when I tried to think about it, it just seemed really silly and I couldn’t do it?_

“Aww, c’mon! You gotta _believe_.”

_okay I’ll try again grrrrRAAAAAA NOW I’M REALLY STRONG!_

Yuu cackles, reaching out to pinch Mihashi’s skinny arm. “Liiiiar!” He clenches a fist, frowning in mock-seriousness. “You gotta get super buff! And then I can ride on your shoulders to school. Hey, also, can ya make yourself real smart? Then you can do my homework for me!”

_Abe-kun would probably tell me not to_

“Yeah, well, not like he’s ever gonna meet me, so just don’t tell him!” Yuu breathes out a long-suffering sigh. “I was mostly joking, anyway. But I guess if the Great Abe-kun disapproves, then I can’t fight it.”

A pause, Mihashi radiating nervous energy, then: _Yuu-kun is mad?_

“What? Nah, just…” He sighs again, planting his hands on his hips. “You can’t just always do what someone says! And also,” he narrows his eyes, leaning in, prodding in the general vicinity of Mihashi’s belly button, “if _you_ think it’s wrong, don’t hide behind _him!_ Geeeeeez.”

After another long pause, Mihashi types again. _I don’t think it’s right to do your homework for you_

“Yeah! You’re right! …Still, can’t blame me for hopin’, eh?” Yuu stretches his arms behind his head, grinning, then looks towards Mihashi. “About him…you gonna show him soon?”

There's that little thrill of happy-shy that Mihashi gets when they talk about Abe. _maybe_

“Come _on!_ I bet he’ll be real psyched.”

_you really think so?_

“I’m _sure_.” Well, okay, no he’s not, but Mihashi doesn’t need that. “You gonna see him tonight?” Like he doesn’t know the answer.

He has to wait a moment; sometimes, Mihashi still forgets that he can’t see if he just nods or shakes his head; seems like muscle memory dies hard. If that’s even still a thing for a ghost.

_yeah I’m gonna_

“You gotta do it! Show him what you can do!”

The phone dances in the air as Mihashi fidgets. _no I can’t what if I mess up and he thinks I’m awful???_

Yuu crosses his arms. “You’re _not_ gonna mess it up, and even if you _did_ , he won’t think that!” He considers for a moment. “I mean, maybe he’d make fun of ya, but he’ll still like you.”

_Abe-kun gets angry about weird things_

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Yuu grimaces; he's heard stories. “But he won’t get mad about this!”

_really?_

“ _Definitely_.”

_you sure?_

“Mi-ha-shi! He’s going to think it’s way cool. Promise.”

_maybe tomorrow_

“Won’t he get _more_ mad if you hide it from him a long time? Like the talking thing?”

Mihashi doesn’t move for a moment. Then the phone slowly drops like he’s crouched down.

Yuu squats down too, frowning, concerned. “What?”

After a moment, Mihashi types, _what if it’s already been too long?_

Yuu stares at the air in front of him for a while, considering. Abruptly, he flings up his arms with a ferocious holler.

They both tumble over into the dirt. Mihashi is a pleasant cushioning resistance to the air that slowly becomes boy-shaped under him, then wiggles and flails when he tickles him mercilessly, fascinating and almost making him forget the point he was about to make. He taps Mihashi’s chest, and, once Mihashi’s stopped shoving his palm against his chin and kicking his legs, folds his hands on his chest, gazing levelly at about where he thinks his face is. “Scary, huh?” Mihashi forgets (or can’t find) the phone, but Tajima doesn’t even need the confirmation of a nod when Mihashi’s feelings are so apparent. “But now it’s over, and you’re not scared anymore.”

This time, he waits for the phone. _not anymore_

“And isn’t it like that with him?”

_oh_

“He won’t stay mad about it forever! You just gotta wait it out. Or distract him, like I just did with you! Okay, maybe not  _exactly_ like what I did, but you know what I mean. And if he _does_ stay mad, if he’s bein’ a jerk, tell me, and I’ll come like _pow_!” he pushes himself up, throwing a mock-punch, “right in the nose!”

_no!!! Yuu-kun don’t!!!_

“Fiiiiiiiiine.” He huffs exaggeratedly before grinning. “But you got it, right?”

 _I think so?_ A breath, then Mihashi types something else: _I get that Yuu-kun is a JERK._ Yuu laughs, and then he tickles him again, and, less startled this time, Mihashi tickles him back, light, and he’s _kind_ of exaggerating when he giggles and squirms but not _totally_ , and then they’re rolling around in the dirt and wrestling happily like any other pair of boys.

* * *

Things are better, easier, now that he has Abe back. It’s easier to get up in the mornings, easier to face school, easier to make it through the day with minimal hiding in bathrooms and at the bottom of stairwells to cry. Which is good, because Hatake’s taken to chasing him down even when he leaves, even though Ren’s trying to be considerate and take his terrible, hateful self away from all of them. Hatake follows him to speak in that tone that’s still menacing for all its quietness, to rattle the door of the stall he’s shut himself in and growl threats through the crack, tell him he can’t hide in there forever.

But Ren can sure try. And he’d rather be late for class than face that menacing dead-eyed stare, find out just what Hatake might be willing to do.

The other boys aren’t quite as bad when they’re on their own—some of them are even nice to him from time to time when it suits their self-image to Be Kind To The Weird Loser Kid—but when they band together, and everyone can conveniently pretend it was someone else’s idea? Then, things get dangerous.

Sometimes, it’s just talk, cruel words and mocking questions. Or they’ll just ignore him pointedly, shoulders pressed together, bodies turned away, eyes seeming to slide right off his face and away like _he’s_ the ghost. Then there’s the times they’ll dare him to do things they know he’s too afraid, too starved for approval to refuse, eat the wrinkled, rotten apple discovered at the back of someone's desk, say something rude to a teacher and get himself sent to cry in the principal’s office, steal candy from the corner store that he's not going to get to eat and only by some miracle never gets caught with.

But other times, there's shoving and elbows and shoulders and someone will _accidentally_ step on his foot or jab him or trip him. They’ll apologise but in that nasty way that is no apology at all, and then everyone will laugh, and Ren dashes away with wide eyes and thumping heart and one time, he’s scared enough that when he stops running, he throws up. Even though he cleans it up himself, the teacher that finds him halfway through still yells at him for making a mess in the middle of a hallway, and he used a cloth, that was _disgusting_ , what was _wrong_ with him.

Or, other times, the person who trips him _won’t_ apologise, and someone else will kick at the back of his knee. So he goes down like a puppet with the strings cut, because Ren has learned how to fall, learned that falling fast and well is better than resisting, staying down is better than trying to stand up immediately. It just makes them want to beat you down even harder.

Then again, so does crying.

And then he can’t breathe, the world strobes around him with pain and legs and dirt and flashes of red, and he doesn’t understand what he’s done to deserve this, but clearly, these boys know. They know enough not to use their full strength, or at least not where the coach will see the marks on Ren. Ren, who always hides in the back to change. But even so, he’s already covered in the beginnings of bruises by the time Abe summons enough infuriated energy to tear at one of the boys. Not quite able to pull him away, but enough to make him freeze, shivering with wide eyes and dread in his heart. Abe does the same to the next, and the next, until the group loses momentum and the boys who have felt icy fingers grab their arms, rip at their jackets, dig into their chests, felt the lash of that silent rage, they retreat quickly without a backward glance, and the others follow soon after.

As soon as they’re out of sight, Abe helps him up, cups his cheeks and kisses him, pulls him into a hug that is soothing for all its coolness but agony in that Mihashi can’t return it, not where someone could walk in on them. He can tell Abe’s brimming with frustration, at Ren, at his teammates, but Abe knows better than to expect him to be able to fight back, knows better than to tell him to go to an adult. Adults _say_ they’ll help, but if you actually go to them, they just get angry and defensive, snap at you, tell you to grow up, you’re old enough to deal with your own problems now, what the hell do you expect me to _do_ , march up to the school and complain? Call all their parents? I’m not your _dad_ , Ren. You want to phone _him_ , tell _him_ you can’t deal with a little roughhousing? That’s what I thought. So stop crying already.

So Abe doesn’t tell him to Tell An Adult, he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing that needs to be said, nothing that _can_ be said. There’s no way to escape it, now that the others have decided he’s an appropriate outlet for their prepubescent aggression.

Even the dream of leaving, going to another school, is torn away from him, his father telling him uncertainly over the phone that money is too tight, that he has to be a good boy, do his best, keep his head down and he’ll get through it. Being told to survive, endure would hurt more if he hadn’t eavesdropped when his uncle was talking to Dad earlier, didn’t know exactly the pathetic light his situation had been put in. It isn’t his parent’s fault, it isn’t even his uncle’s fault, it’s his for being so selfish and hateful. And that awfulness wouldn’t go away just because he switched schools, anyway, would travel with him, and the bullying would just start over again. He can only wait and hope it’ll pass on to someone else, someone _else_ will somehow screw up worse than he has. Just by pitching, just by existing.

There’s always hope, especially at the beginning of a fresh school year when the previous summer’s club activities are mostly an unpleasant memory. It always seems like maybe _this_ time, if he can just sit in the right seat, if he can just figure out the right amount of eye contact to make, if he puts on his uniform in just the right way in the morning, if he can just somehow find a way to be less terrible this year, _this_ time, things will be different.

The thing about hope is it lifts you up from even the deepest depths like an outstretched hand from a beloved. But unlike the cold presence at his side, hope is cruel.

Hope lets go.

Hope runs away laughing merrily, dumps him with his lip bust open and his left hip aching, crying in the corner of the dugout, knowing he needs to stand, needs to hurry home or he’s going to get in trouble _there_ , too, and for bleeding on his uniform.

Hope is at the top of the steps at the other end of the dugout, standing where Ren was when he “tripped” (at least that’ll be what he says when people ask him what happened tomorrow). How Ren got over here, he’s not sure, but he thinks maybe he broke one of the cardinal rules and tried to drag himself away, which is probably why he hurts so bad now.

Hope watches him for a while, grim-faced and silent, then slinks away into the night, off to hot showers and a bike ride home to a happy family around the dinner table and no mention of anyone kicking the shit out of that weedy pitcher from across the street or the knotted shame and anger in Hope’s stomach, and then tumbles into bed to forget it all as best Hope can.

At least in the dark of the dugout, Ren can get away with clinging to Abe as he sobs, as he releases any claim on hope like the breath in his lungs, formless and untouchable. Unlike the boy in his arms who kisses the tears away, lightly, lightly, easing the ache as he presses close, and sometimes, _most_ of the time, when Abe touches him, it raises fire in him almost too strong, but there are times like this one when it’s all soft tenderness as he urges him onto the bench, trails kisses down Ren’s throat, and unbuttons his pants. It feels like a screw-you to the ones that hurt him here, like Abe’s reclaiming this space for him, this sidehall of the temple to his favourite activity, re-consecrated as a place of joy. There’s a triumphant taste to Abe’s tongue, to his fingers in Ren’s mouth, even though the pain is still there and will linger long after he’s come, shaking and crying still and gripping Abe’s shoulders like they’re the only certain thing in his world.

He’s _very_ late for supper, and he _does_ get in trouble, but he doesn’t mind because all he can think about is finishing as quick as possible so he can go upstairs and return the favour and fall asleep swathed in safety.

Ruri complains that he spends all of his time in his room with the door shut and sometimes with something wedged so that she can’t just barge in (her own words) anyway. What she _really_ means is she’s worried, but it feels like meddling to Ren, so he just scowls at her and when she’s persistent tells her nothing’s up and even if it WAS, it’s none of her business. He succeeds in hurting her feelings, which is not quite the same as convincing her but has essentially the same effect.

Which is good, as far as Ren is concerned. He doesn’t need her fussing and talking and bossing him around. Ruri doesn’t understand what’s happening to him, doesn’t understand the way he feels, wouldn’t understand about Abe or the team or Kanou or any number of things. Trying, seeing if she might, feels like a waste of time when he’s already got his centre, his home, everything he needs here in the boy that stands at his side, that waits in his bed to kiss and talk and fuck and curl around him when he sleeps, making him feel safe and protected and loved.

Some days, he wishes he never had to leave the haven of his room and Abe’s arms. Though when he voices the desire, Abe radiates disapproval. “Just a...just a wish,” Ren adds hastily. He still thinks it, though, wishes he could somehow find a way to never leave.

* * *

 

Takaya closes his bedroom door behind him, greeted by Mihashi’s familiar shy happiness. There’s a funny tinge to it, Mihashi’s all worked up about something. Takaya huffs out a patient breath, fetching his phone and opening a note page, holding it out.

But Mihashi’s not interested in the phone, still buzzes with agitation from the other side of the room.

“What?” Takaya snaps; now that they _can_ talk, it’s exasperating when Mihashi won’t.

Irritation is overtaken by curiousity, though: next to his desk, roughly at chest height, a baseball hovers in the air. Almost reflexively, Takaya’s hand comes up in front of his chest. The ball rises gently before arcing across the room to smack lightly into his palm.

There’s a breathless pause, Takaya staring across the room wide-eyed and Mihashi radiating a weird shy smugness.

Then Takaya’s stomping over, his voice at least restrained to a menacing hiss. “Don’t throw baseballs in the house! What if you’d missed?” He thrusts the phone out, feeling the soft resistance of Mihashi’s chest and the icy shimmer of his terror.

_won’t miss! practiced!_

Takaya crosses his arms, drawling sarcastically, “Well, in _that_ case, better sign you up for the team!”

Mihashi sparks happiness for half a beat before cluing in and drooping. Irritation rises in Takaya, but on its heels, guilt. It’s the first time Mihashi’s ever expressed something about himself with such confidence. And the force of the ball… It wasn’t hard, but it felt more out of caution than out of inability.

Takaya looks away sulkily. “If you wanted to play catch, you could’ve said! We could go outside.” Before Mihashi’s gotten further than a little rush of hope, Takaya sweeps his hand in a final gesture. “Not tonight. It’s dark already and it’s cold, which maybe doesn’t matter to _you_ , but _I_ don’t wanna freeze my fingers.”

Mihashi is silent now, a shimmer of embarrassment and disappointment that makes Takaya want to _shake_ him. Why he always has to make everything so _hard_ … He growls out a breath, ready to say as much, when something in Mihashi changes.

Takaya can only hold still, perplexed by the courage wavering in front of him, almost obscured by Mihashi’s abject terror. Whatever it is he’s trying to work up to now, he wishes he’d just get on with it already.

A light, cold touch on his shoulder.

Takaya twitches, scowling about where he thinks Mihashi’s face is.

Close.

Not that Takaya had exactly thought about it, but he’d just assumed that if someone ever kissed him, he’d be able to figure out what to do pretty quick. And he can, to some degree, his brain is yelling plenty of instructions, _hold him, move your mouth, tip your damn head, something, would you_ hold _him already._

But all he does is freeze.

He can’t even shut his eyes, just stares into the air in front of him with a feeling like his heart is simultaneously being torn open and finally made whole.

Mihashi falls back with a shudder of worry that rips the hole wider. Takaya’s brows pull together, his mouth finally at least obeying his direction to open, even if he still has no idea what to say. Mihashi slips back, and like he was on the other end of a string, Takaya steps forward, arms coming up.

His hands close on nothing.

Mihashi is gone, his misery hanging in the air like a forgotten scent.

* * *

 

Ren grips the bag one last time before dropping it, absently rubbing his thumb against his fingers. His gaze skitters around nervously, from Kawaba’s lanky leadoff to the boys still in the dugout, to a tear in the chainlink fence, to a solitary cloud overhead. He can’t help glancing over his shoulder at Kanou, but his features are an unreadable mask. No friends, no family in the stands, barely any classmates, even for their first official game of the year. Ren’s all alone up here, truly alone.

But not for long.

He meets Hatake’s eyes, nodding once; Hatake gives him a look back like he’s just swallowed a toad. And Ren, for the first time in a long, long time, Ren giggles. There on the mound, with ten pairs of eyes shooting daggers at him, with their tired coach not even paying attention, his back turned to the diamond, Ren giggles.

Because what he sees is Hatake, but he knows, he can _feel_ Abe there. Probably giving Hatake the creeps. Ren giggles again, and if there’s a slight manic tinge to it, no one notices.

No signs, but for now he doesn’t need signs. Just follow the progression of pitches Abe worked out for him for these first few innings. Once through the lineup, pitching by rote. And then, _then_ , Ren won’t be alone on the mound, Abe will come to press steady fingers to his back and guide him through. Ren shivers as he adjusts his grip on the ball in his mitt.

They get hit a couple times. The other school even takes a few runs. But it’s _they_ , _they’re_ getting hit, not just him. He can feel Abe’s annoyance and his reassurance, knows he’s watching each batter carefully so he can take care of Ren.

So, for once, they have a chance to win.

When Ren jogs back to the dugout for the third time, it’s with Abe hovering close beside him. The third hole got a pop to second on his first at-bat, but this time, this time they’d struck him out.

Ren grabs some water from the cooler, skittering to a back corner and whispering, soft, soft, “Thank you.”

Abe seems taken aback for a second. Ren can feel his gruff embarrassment. And then fingers sliding into his hair just under his cap, a forehead pressed against his temple.

His limbs ache, itch with the need to hug Abe, but for once, for once it’s not fear, it’s not comfort, it’s happiness, it’s excitement. Something shared here outside of his room, something good.

Somebody calls in a bored voice for Ren to grab a helmet. And is a bit alarmed by his cheery, “Okay!”

The fourth inning goes okay, though Mihoshi is still lagging behind Kawaba for runs. But Abe traces between his shoulder blades, right over the 1, _…’ll hold them,_ his touch firm even if it’s hard to follow. And then the sign for a slider, starting outside the zone but swinging in. Ren nods once before shifting his weight to start the pitch.

On the way back to the dugout, Ren nearly falls on his face when someone calls, “Hey, Mihashi’s not total crap for once!”

Someone swats his shoulder with a glove on their way past.

There’s a different energy in the dugout as they ready for ground maintenance. Feels…energetic. _Fun_. Ren smiles to himself as he follows the others; it’s all thanks to Abe, it’s Abe who has worked this magical transformation, even if the team doesn’t know it. Ren’s chest is light.

For a little while.

It’s hard to say what it is, if it’s just Mihoshi’s inertia or that Kawaba is simply the better team, but even if their opponents haven’t gotten many hits, neither has Mihoshi. And as the seventh draws to a close, it’s clear Kawaba’s batters are getting a handle on Ren’s pitches.

He skulks nervously in the dugout, huddled in on himself. What can Abe say, except for the obvious? Ren’s pitching can’t be helped. And even with Abe, he’s still alone here.

He trudges back to the mound with his head low. No more encouraging yells from the players behind him, no one looks at him. He does his best, drags himself through, but all he can do is follow Abe. He can’t catch every ball, he can’t be there with his foot on every base. Can’t stop them from landing with one out and runners on second and third.

Ren can’t think about the scoreboard behind him, he can’t think about any of it. Shouldn’t. Just wait for Abe’s signs, fastball, and—

A shiver of _no_ runs up his spine. He can’t even say why, sure doesn’t think he could justify it to Abe. Should he even try and tell him…?

Trembling a little, Ren’s chin pulls towards his shoulder. But he can’t, he _can’t_ , what does _he_ know? He _has_ to trust Abe, Abe’s the only one who’s gotten them this far, without him there’s no hope left. Maybe he could just throw a different pitch? Pretend it was an accident, his fingers slipped.

Except…what pitch?

Suddenly Ren can’t even remember which batter this is, let alone what they’ve given him so far. He can’t, he _can’t_ go against Abe’s signs now. He bites his lip. He can feel Abe’s confusion behind him, feel his fingers brush down his back in wordless question.

With a gasp, he secures his grip on the ball and shifts his weight.

The next thing he knows is that terrible, horrible, hateful sound.

The crack of the bat connecting.

The ball flies low between second and third, hitting the ground not far in front of left field. An easy out, a double. Or it should be.

But he’s still alone up here.

Ren stares dumbly at the ball sitting immobile in the grass, hearing the quick smack of the runners’ steps. In his mind, he begs Tsugawa to run, but he just ambles over, bending to pick up the ball like it’s a curious rock before slowly, slowly tossing it to Miyakawa. At least the runner stops there.

Ren turns back to home, shoulders tight. And then nearly flops to the ground. He can’t feel Abe.

Or he can, he’s still somewhere nearby, but Ren’s too panicked and there’s too many people, he doesn’t have a hope of pinpointing him. And even then, what would he do? Run to him? Cry for help like some lost child? If Abe left… He must be disappointed in Ren, must have given up on him. Even with all the help Abe had given him, he was still no good, they were still going to lose.

Ren curls forwards, tears prickling at his eyes.

But he’s not going to, he’ll never give up the mound. So the only way to escape the eyes boring into him, the only way to find his way back to Abe, is to finish the game.

Mouth dry and stomach knotted, Ren straightens and raises the ball to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8D


	5. Tidal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a note: I've been pretty scarce because I'm taking part in SASO (go team ookiku furikabutte!!!) and also trying to do the oof shipweeks. there will be stuff up on my tumblr or linked off my twitter, but it'll prolly end up here eventually.
> 
> OKAY OKAY BIG FAT WARNING ON THIS CHAPTER AND THE NEXT.
> 
> if you are 100% sure you don't need it and don't wanna be spoiled, pls scroll past this and continue.
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> ok so this chapter and the one after deals with suicide and just generally with Not Good Thoughts so just. stay safe y'all.

Since The Kiss, Mihashi’s definitely been around, but only as a fizz of nerves on Takaya’s periphery that he probably wouldn’t even notice if Mihashi weren’t so obviously freaked out. But he only ever shows up while Takaya’s in class or sitting down to dinner, never when he can easily slip away and…

And what?

Takaya scrubs hands back over hot cheeks and a glower.

He carefully scopes out a secluded area of Green Center Park, wrestling his way through wet foliage in murky dusk until he finds a space under the trees that’s large enough but still screened from prying eyes. In the damp of late October he can feel fairly confident the park won’t have many visitors, anyway. Through some miracle, the ground’s even in decent condition. Though he supposes he shouldn’t worry about a ghost slipping and hurting himself.

He’s not worried about highschool entrance exams like some of his classmates, so he’s actually left with his pick of afternoons. One clear Thursday, he rushes home to exchange his school bag for the pre-packed duffle and heads back down.

As he’s lacing up his sneakers, though, he hears the van pull up. Takaya wrinkles his nose irritably and heads outside.

“Hey, Taka!”

“Hi.” He waves absently, going to pick up his bike.

To his immense dismay, his father does not hurry into the house but stands watching him.

“Didn’t you just get home? Where ya off to?”

“Meeting a friend.”

Takashi gives him a split second look that says you _have_ friends? “It that Haruna kid? You haven’t talked about him in a while, how’s he doing?”

Takaya swings his leg over the bike, bracing while he settles the bag more securely. “No. Just a school friend.” He checks his light.

“Huh. Why don’t you invite that guy over for supper some time? He’s funny. Got about as much tact as you do.”

“I don’t really see him anymore.” Takaya squeezes each brake in turn before reaching down to tug at the front brake arms. “Look, I gotta get going, okay?”

His father advances on him, jerking his thumb back at the van. “I could take ya…?”

Takaya sets his foot on the pedal with a decisive tap. “It’s off-season. I need the exercise. See you at dinner, Dad.”

His father calls something affirmative after him, but Takaya doesn’t turn to look and see if that strange note in his voice showed more clearly on his face.

He makes sure everything is set up just right, not that there’s a whole lot to do. A half-dozen baseballs arranged neatly on the ground at one end of the clearing (Mihashi might be confident in his aim, but Takaya doesn’t want this cut short because they lost a ball in the brush). His bag set off to the side, glove resting on top; an invitation, not a demand. His own posture as non-threatening as he can manage.

Takaya pulls a face, even more glad that no one’s around to see him. This feels incredibly stupid and he has no idea if it’ll work and he _hates_ that, hates that he has no way of testing it except to try now.

Try and psychically ask a ghost on a date.

He grumbles out a breath, eyebrows twitching together as he lets his eyes fall shut.

He doesn’t _like_ feeling it because it doesn’t make any sense and besides, there’s always a mutedness to it, a sepia-toned quality that reminds him of the soft warmth in his chest he never truly noticed until it was ripped away. He can’t even describe it in a way that makes any sense. But Takaya has had more than enough of this, isn’t willing to just wait until Mihashi has the guts to approach him again.

He pulls.

Something tightens.

And then goes slack.

Some of Sato’s rambling comes to him; he grumbles again but squares his posture, deepens his breath. Tries to relax and lose himself in the quiet of the woods, the distant sound of traffic and a stray crow crackling.

Pulls.

It feels good and awful in some indescribable way, somewhere close to the satisfaction of itching a scab. Takaya gathers in another deep breath and that feeling of connection like a net, pulling, pulling, gathered in his hands and his chest and on his lips and tongue with a single syllable like the round chime of a bell.

He opens his eyes; this is stupid, it’s not gonna work.

The air of the clearing feels thick.

Takaya stares around himself, a rare prickle of fear skittering up his spine. And still within him, as if unable to stop now it’s been put in motion, that pull. Takaya shuts his eyes again, steeling himself against the impulse to run. He knows what Mihashi feels like, he feels like— _this_ —

Cold rushes over him, suffocating, a nauseatingly heavy weight in his chest and in his head and pain pain pain and panic which just makes the pain worse and his body his body feels so thick but it still fights and that wasn’t—

Takaya opens his eyes wide with a gasp.

Something at the edge of the clearing twitches like a startled rabbit, rustling the bushes.

“ _There_ you are!” He was so worried he’d just be pissed and scare Mihashi off, but the second he’s certain he’s there, Takaya can’t help breaking into a broad grin.

He’d intended to take things slow, be cautious, but before he knows it, his legs carry him over until he brushes up against that chill form, immediately encircling him in a rough hug. It’s embarrassing, heat rises to his cheeks, but he wants to leave absolutely no room for doubt in whatever constitutes Mihashi’s mind.

And, undoing knots he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, Mihashi hugs him back.

It occurs to Takaya that though they’ve touched plenty, it’s rarely been like this, rarely been so blatant. Rarely has he had the chance to feel things like the fluffy tickle of Mihashi’s hair against his cheek, feel how small he is, not that much shorter than Takaya but slight, feel the ache trembling through his body that matches the one singing through Takaya’s own.

He turns his head, nose nudging against an ear, a temple. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Air stirs against his skin as Mihashi nods contritely, hands slipping up Takaya’s back to grip his jacket. Takaya wants to fish his phone out, ask for him to say something properly, but he can’t persuade himself to move.

He could just ask. Right here, right now. Or just do it.

Takaya buries his nose in Mihashi’s shoulder, into the inexplicable plushness of a hoodie. “Are you _cold?_ ” he blurts out.

A shake this time. And then Mihashi’s hand walking its way down toward his jacket pocket, and now Takaya feels certain the contact is not about finding the boundaries of their bodies but out of a desire to touch. Mihashi releases him entirely to type, but somehow Takaya forgets to lower his arms.

_not cold! but Abe-kun IS warm and I like that_

_I just think when it’s fall or winter I should be wearing more clothes?? and then they’re just kind of there_

_if it’s bad I can stop?_

Abe bats the phone down. “Of _course_ it’s not bad, I was just curious. So,” he’s glad he has a good lead-in, “is it just if you expect to look a certain way that you change, or can you do it on purpose?” He crosses his arms; it seems embarrassing to go back to hugging Mihashi now.

_both!_

_I mean yeah I can do it on purpose too_

_but I can’t always keep it?_

A slight pause; Takaya opens his mouth but shuts it when Mihashi turns the phone away again. _The other day Tajima and I were doing silly stuff with it_

Takaya finds he’s oddly reluctant to ask _what_ they’d been doing. And at any rate, Mihashi’s tentative cheer has suddenly drooped. Takaya nods firmly. “That’s nice. And that’s good, because you’re gonna need a glove if we’re gonna do this.”

It’s nearly impossible not to burst out laughing at Mihashi’s sudden rapt attention.

Takaya schools his face, jerking his head in the direction of the baseballs. “Thought we could play catch.”

Mihashi’s arms encircle his neck, delight radiating from him. After a split second, Takaya holds him tight too, a peculiar ache somewhere in his chest, somewhere around that ephemeral point of connection. Before he can decide he’s ready to do anything more, though, Mihashi slips away.

Takaya shakes his head, stepping over to where his glove lies. Sure enough, when he turns back, one of the baseballs is hovering in the air. Takaya cracks a smile, finding some firm footing as he wriggles his hand into his glove.

He starts to crouch but corrects himself, perplexed by Mihashi’s little jolt of alarm. “Sorry, force of habit.” He shrugs, raising his glove.

With a satisfying (if light) _thock_ , the ball hits his mitt.

Takaya can’t hide his grin, even if it’s tempered the next second when he realises he only has memory and a rough idea of Mihashi’s size to aim his own throw. He frowns, tossing the ball up in the air as he thinks before dropping it to the dirt.

Mihashi exudes waves of antsy confusion, growing stronger as Takaya crosses the clearing, shrugging out of his jacket. Takaya narrows his eyes, trying to ignore it, and thrusts out the jacket; Mihashi recoils from it like it’s a lit firecracker.

“Here. Put this on so I can see where your arms are.”

There’s a split second pause before he feels a gentle tug on the jacket. Mihashi takes it from him, seeming to support its weight easily enough. Still, Takaya frowns.

“You think you can put it on by yourself?”

The jacket jumps in the air; Takaya suppresses a snicker. It flaps about a couple times before drifting towards him; Takaya readies to take it but stops when he feels cool fingers press against his chest. He’s baffled for a moment before it occurs to him it’s an x.

He scruffles Mihashi’s hair. “You still have the phone, you doof.”

More agitated flapping before Mihashi produces the phone and then holds out a message for him to see.

_don’t think I can_

As soon as he’s read it, Mihashi turns the phone back and types again. He takes a long time before he shows what he’s written, though.

_I’d like Abe-kun to put it on me?_

Takaya’s cheeks burn and he nearly glares into the empty space in front of him. Nobody had mentioned how horrifically embarrassing these things would be. Or maybe they had. He hadn’t been paying attention.

He nearly slaps it out of Mihashi’s grip, shaking it out and then holding it up like a shield. It pulls and jiggles and then he’s no longer supporting its weight.

Takaya surveys the result; it looks like some kind of cheap special effect, but at least now he can see what he’s doing. He nods definitively. “That’ll work.” He can’t resist tugging on it, straightening it before doing up the zipper. Mihashi’s body provides uncertain resistance, like a helium balloon. “So you won’t get tangled or anything,” Takaya informs him.

Mihashi dithers a moment longer before dipping down to scoop up another ball, fussing with it in front of his chest. It’s…irritating just to watch. But also, Takaya realises with a sinking feeling, cute.

“You want to throw again?” He’s already jogging back to his spot.

This time, he can see Mihashi’s movement, see the bunch of energy in his arm and then the crisp snap forward, sending the ball in a beautiful shallow arc to his mitt. He has a funny feeling of _not quite, not yet_ that he pushes away because it won’t explain itself, pushes it away and throws the ball back.

They fall into the familiar rhythm of it, Takaya slowly moving back until they’re using the full length of the clearing. Hard not to wish they had more space, but just the same it lifts Takaya’s spirits.

“Your aim _is_ really good.” He snorts a laugh at Mihashi’s burst of happiness and then watches with perplexed amusement while he flaps about. “Y’know, you’d probably have more energy to throw if you wouldn’t flip out like that.” He braces for Mihashi to crash, but he’s apparently in too good a mood. He scampers over to Takaya, phone in hand.

_it’s okay!_

_it’s not tiring just to move_

_well it is a little with Abe-kun’s jacket on_

_but I don’t mind_

There’s a funny expectant feeling, from Mihashi and also coiled in his own chest, tingling out through limbs that ache to move, reach out.

Before he can, round dark spots appear on Mihashi’s shoulders and something cold and wet splops on Takaya’s nose.

“Ah, crap…”

He jogs past Mihashi to grab the extra balls, water already dribbling down the back of his collar by the time he’s dropped them and his glove into his bag. Takaya wrinkles his nose, trying to assess whether this is going to be a short downpour or if they should just pack it in for the day when there’s a short tug on his sleeve.

Mihashi, he presumes, but now sans jacket. He plucks at Takaya’s shirt, evidently urging him towards some goal; Takaya follows.

“What’d you do with my—”

They’re only a few steps back into the trees where a large conifer spreads its branches low. Takaya perks up, ducking under the branches; sure enough, his jacket lies on the faded and blissfully dry covering of needles.

“Good thinking.” He pats around for Mihashi, squeezing the arm he finds before heading for the trunk. Dropping to a crouch, he picks up his jacket, but then grimaces, tugging at his sopping shirt. He hauls it over his head, crouch-walking back towards the periphery of the tree to wring it out as much as he can.

And then freezes, sudden warmth coming to his skin as he registers Mihashi’s embarrassed captivation.

“What?” He comes back to hang the shirt on a less sappy branch. “It’s just a shirt.”

Except he knows damn well it’s not, is all too conscious of their privacy and the potential it holds. Even though they’ve shared a bed often enough. But it wasn’t the same, wasn’t the same before he’d felt Mihashi’s lips like that. Takaya dips to grab the jacket, shrugging into it as if it provided any defense.

Which it absolutely doesn’t when Mihashi drapes himself against his back, the phone hovering in front of him with _I’m warm now?_ on the screen.

And god, he is, warm enough Takaya could almost believe the boy pressed against his back were full of life and breath and blood, almost feels like if he turned his head fast enough, he’d catch sight of him.

Indecision finally, blissfully releases him, and almost before he’s fully processed the thought he’s shrugging free of Mihashi and turning, grabbing for him before he can get the wrong idea and flee. He flops back against the tree, its gnarled bark a less than pleasant backrest but how can he care with Mihashi sliding so willingly into his arms, limbs tangled and passing through Takaya and making him shiver as Mihashi settles straddling his lap.

Embarrassment curls in his gut, frustration at not really knowing what he’s doing, but he doesn’t want to stop now, doesn’t want to hesitate any more and lose this. Takaya cups Mihashi’s face carefully, urging him down until the tip of his nose squashes against Mihashi’s cheek. His eyes fall shut; not like there’s any need to see. Just feel, feel Mihashi’s hands curl on the front of his jacket, feel his lips open tentatively against the corner of Takaya’s mouth, moving less in speech than in uncertain desire. Feel the jolt through his body when their lips meet properly, feel the non-weight of his body as he shifts in Takaya’s lap.

He lets his hands slide down Mihashi’s neck, down to feel the outline of his narrow shoulders and then slipping down his chest to encircle his waist. Takaya’s still…not scared, but something like, but also oh so eager to taste this nothingness he’s dreamed about more times than he’d like to admit. Takaya reaches up to bury his hands in Mihashi’s hair, the strands indefinite like water running through his fingers, resolving in shape and then melting. He can _definitely_ feel the way Mihashi gasps, though, mouth open wet-not-wet against his cheek and messy and awkward. Takaya feels a shiver of embarrassing arousal; there’s so much to be explored there, an entire orchestra of sensation for him to direct. And it aches, aches that he can’t see, can’t hear, but it’s also leaving him intent on everything he _can_ sense, the ebb and spike of Mihashi’s radiant emotions, the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders, the fingers pushing inside the still open front of his jacket to skim over his skin and then tense when Takaya tugs again on his hair. The shapes his mouth makes in between heavier presses of lips, the way he nuzzles against Takaya. The way he breaks away, arms sliding up around Takaya’s back, and hugs him tight with his face pressed into his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Mihashi pushes himself back quickly; Takaya can feel his vigorous nod. He sighs out a laugh, pulling Mihashi back down on his shoulder.

“Not like I’m threatening to stop or anything.” As if Mihashi’s thoughts weren’t plain enough, he can feel from the way he hunches and then melts against him. Takaya rolls his eyes but smiles fondly. Pressed close like this, he could swear he feels the rabbit-quick leap of Mihashi’s heartbeat; when he turns his head, finds neck and then the softness under his jaw, he can feel it there too.

Mihashi curls against him; when Takaya looks down, he sees the phone. Mihashi appears to try and snatch it against his chest, he assumes to hide the screen. Takaya snickers at that, setting his hands on his shoulders and pushing him upright. On impulse, he leans his face against Mihashi’s chest while he types. It’s sort of squishy but _there_ and wonderful.

Mihashi takes a long time before he taps Takaya’s shoulder, holding the phone out. Takaya takes it from him, frowning.

_I don’t know how to say things right and I think Abe-kun will just get mad but I’m okay but I’m just worried?? I think?? because I’m like this and so we can’t do normal stuff and I think anyway if I was still real then Abe would be disappointed because I don’t look good and I’m not cool or anything like Abe is and I just want to make Abe feel good the way you make ME feel good that’s just all that I want is to make you feel good and just be with you but I’ll mess it up like I already messed up in your room and_

Takaya blinks down at the screen, making a pained expression. He frowns at where he thinks Mihashi’s face is. “How the hell do you managed to get tied in such weird knots? Half this stuff,” he jerks the phone irritably, “why would I even care? I just want _you_ , okay? What we have,” he gestures between them, “it’s enough, just _you_ is enough.” His cheeks burn at his own words, and at the small mournful part of him that insists _no, it’s not._

Whatever Takaya’s thoughts, Mihashi seems reassured, snuggling back down with his head on Takaya’s shoulder and his fingers skimming his neck. With a long exhale, Takaya relaxes back against the tree. The rain patters above them, the occasion droplet making its way down. It’s chilly, but Mihashi is a gentle flame against his chest.

And wrestling the phone back to type, _I like you_

Takaya makes another pained face but staunchly wraps his arms tight around Mihashi. “I like you too.” He’s sort of glad they can’t see each other; speaking the words bothers him less than he’d expected, but reading them is deeply embarrassing. “Didn’t think it needed to be said,” he grumbles before turning his face against Mihashi’s hair. There’s a sting in his eyes and at the back of his nose, something he can’t release for fear it will sweep both of them away. So Takaya locks it up tight, shoves it down, and loses himself in the still susurrus of the rain.

* * *

The solution comes to Ren a couple weeks after the incident in the dugout. Well, really, it’s been hovering around the back of his mind ever since Abe first left, ever since he discovered just how unacceptable life without him was, now.

He thinks of it that way. Not so much that he’s fleeing something as that he’s going to something more certain, more permanent, something that he needs more than this life of fear and pain and never good enough. It’ll happen eventually, anyway, so if he wants to tap out now, what’s the difference?

Ren’s not completely stupid though, knows Abe won’t see it that way, so he keeps these things to himself. The first real secret he’s had in a long time now, and that thought makes it seem a little exciting and fun and not just like a betrayal. Besides, he’s sure, once he got over the initial shock, Abe would be happy.

And then he would forget about his fixation on stupid stuff like school and Ren’s future and leaving the safety of his room ever, and they would just be happy together forever.

Ren doesn’t plan, certainly not in any way that can be observed. He considers methods, but most of the things that he can think of scare him too much, are impossible, or seem unkind to bystanders. He considers pills (there’s quite a stash in the medicine cabinet) but he’s not sure what to take or how much, and not like he can look it up without arousing Abe’s suspicions. Perhaps he could just take _everything_ , there’s _bound_ to be something in there that’ll do it. Except that he knows that whatever he does, it’ll have to be fast, have to be sudden, or Abe will stop him. The thought makes him smile a little, the knowledge that there is one person who cares about him like that in the world; if only Abe could understand…

Perhaps, if Ren had talked to someone about it, they would point out the holes, the problems in his thinking, but Ren isn’t inclined to talk much about his problems at the best of times, and certainly not here where secrecy is vital. And the more he withdraws, recoils from the world around him, the more the links to those who might have broken in, _insisted_ , dug up these thoughts and exposed them for the knotted, unhealthy mistakes that they were, become tenuous and distant. Adults are often too busy with work and household and their own problems and pursuits, and Ruri and Kanou are not any older than he is and just as full of self-doubt and high emotions and feelings that if _Ren_ doesn’t want to spend time with them anymore, then that’s _his_ stupid decision.

They can sense on some level that he’s floundering, and they both know him well enough to know the screwed-up things that go on in his head, but there’s only so many times their hands can reach out and grasp nothing but smoke, nothing but sullen glances and stuttered evasions and flight, before they stop reaching.

Ren’s world becomes very small, especially once the summer ends. It becomes school and Abe and pitching by himself in the back yard and avoiding just about everything else. He’s going to miss baseball, for sure, but even that has long ago stopped being much of a refuge. His family, too, but he assumes they’ll be able to move about freely if it’s them together and he can visit Mom and Dad. Like when he goes to sit across the street from Abe’s family’s house, reading or just humming to himself and letting his mind wander while Abe goes inside to stand next to the chair that still sits empty at the dinner table, to curl up on the couch next to his brother while he plays videogames, cheering along with him with a voice Shun can’t hear and barely remembers now.

Ren’s world focuses to a pinpoint, a singular purpose: to escape this, to get out. It weighs on his mind always, terrifying, shameful, and yet restoring some of that hope he’d spat up along with blood and dirt and shame time and time again. Sometimes, it's enough, the knowledge that there’s an answer, that there can be an end.

But Ren, as much as he might be a coward, is surprisingly determined when he’s got a goal, has an unfortunate tenacity that serves him well.

It seems like such a small price to pay, just a short pain, and then it’s over.

He’s asked Abe a lot about how it _feels_ being dead, because obviously, he still experiences touch, can still see and hear. It doesn’t sound so bad—not much can hurt him, and he doesn’t experience things like hunger or tiredness. Ren supposes he can give up food, and if he works hard, he’s sure he’ll eventually be able to lift a ball. And there’s still lots to see—they could just walk right into movie theatres (Abe’s done it with him before), and he’ll figure out holding books and manga eventually… And, so far as they know, he’ll have forever to get the hang of it, so Ren’s not worried.

He tells himself it’s like ripping off a bandage.

Although really, when it comes down to it and he’s crossing the bridge on that dark, rainy night in mid-October, he doesn’t leave himself much time to think at all.

And once he’s leapt up, hands slipping on the rail and foot banging painfully against it (but not like it'll matter in a moment), in that moment before he hits the turbid water, there is no chance to reconsider anyway.


	6. Hand Over Hand

S

ometimes, he can only hear the roar of the turbule

nce,

each time his head is sucked under the icy water, his every sense full of

rush

cold

black

and sometimes, he can hear a voi

ce, one he’s never heard before and yet so very, very fami

liar, calling, screaming for him, and sometimes,  _ sometimes _ , he’s in a room he’s never seen before but with an oddly familiar tree ou

tside the window, facing a boy he’s never seen before with dark, intense, droopy e

yes who looks through him but sees him nonetheless and pulls him close and kisse

s him, and Ren would like to surface  _ the _

_ re _ , stay  _ there _ , no

t in the world where his lungs are star

ting to burn with the conflicting reflexes of

Breathe

Don’t bre

athe

and his head pounds and hi

s fingers and toes are colder than they sho

uld be or more li

ke he can’t feel them anymore c

an’t fee

l his body can’t tell whi

ch way’s u

p which way t

o the surfa

ce is t

here eve

n a su

rface anym

ore he ca

n’t fin

d it c

an’t tel

l the diffe

rence was there even a d

iffere

nce in th

e firs

t place ev

erythin

g’s bla

ck everyth

ing hur

ts everything h

urts everyt

hing hu

rts an

d he c

an stil

l hear t

hat vo

ice scr

eaming h

is nam

e wha

t was hi

s na

me agai

n?

hu

r

ts

* * *

 

Takaya crouches, holding out his hand to coax Momoe's dog closer. Her ears flick towards him and she trots over, happy to let him scruff around her neck. She seems particularly small and stubby; he wonders whether she's a cross-breed.

Momoe smiles down at him, hands planted on her hips. “Well, Abe-kun, I would very much appreciate your help preparing the grounds.”

Takaya nods, letting the pup lick his hand. He supposes he could ask her name. “Will over the break be enough time?”

Momoe crosses her arms, expression turning determined. “It’ll be tough, but I think I can—oh, who’s that?”

Someone is half-jogging beside the fence but glancing over at them eagerly, someone with close-cropped mousy-brown hair and a kind smile.

“Oi, Sakaeguchi!” He stands, waving. Sakaeguchi lights up, dashing the last few meters to the gate.

“Sakaeguchi-kun, you’ve decided on Nishiura, then?”

Takaya glances at her; they’d met already?

“Yep.” Sakaeguchi bows. “Looking forward to joining the club!”

Momoe claps her hands together. “Excellent. How do you feel about cutting grass?”

Sakaeguchi gives a exaggeratedly resigned sigh. “Enthusiastic, I suppose?”

“Good answer. Let me fill you in…”

While they talk, Takaya shifts his attention to the shimmery presence at the edge of the field. The second he looks over, Mihashi draws closer, a wavering happiness. But underneath, something wistful. Something a little like jealousy.

Takaya frowns, glancing back at the other two. He’ll have to ask about it later. In the meantime, he flexes his hand open, an invitation that Mihashi tentatively takes.

“So,” Momoe says brusquely, “I’ve got to get going, but I’m glad I caught up with the two of you. I’ll see you again in a few weeks!” She calls to her dog, stepping off quickly through the gate. Takaya watches it trundle behind her on its stumpy legs. They’d never had a pet, even though they had space. Except… He shakes his head, banishing the thought that Mihashi essentially followed him around like an affectionate puppy.

“I should get back too; I left Yuki checking out the library. Though he probably won’t come here, with the commute…”

“Same with Shun.” Takaya leads the way through the gate. “I’m glad you decided to come, though.”

“Nice to have a friendly face!” Sakaeguchi beams at him. “And I’m not exactly high on anyone’s recruitment list…”

Mihashi’s hand is clamped on the hem of his jacket, glancing contact that is very distracting. “Why not? You’re competent.”

Sakaeguchi pulls a face. “I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that was a compliment.”

“It  _ was _ .” Takaya glances back at the diamond, imagining how it’ll look: still small, but tidy, the grass healthier. A carefully-formed mound instead of the near-divot in the grass. The dusty flats of the diamond, striped with chalky lines. He frowns to himself, an idea forming.

Sakaeguchi’s staring at him with an expectant smile. Takaya blinks back at him, trying to recall what he just said.

Before he can, Sakaeguchi sputters out laughter. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

“I was!” he protests, “just…”

Sakaeguchi still smiles. “Abe, you are a terrible liar.”

He opens his mouth and then shuts it with a snap, because the best way to get away with lying is to let people believe you can’t. “Sorry. Lotta stuff on my mind.”

“Mm. I feel you.” Sakaeguchi rests against the fence, peering out over the field for a moment before he glances back at Takaya. “I just thought you might like to come over? We got the latest Kick Champion game, but every time I play Wakako, I just get my butt handed to me…”

“I’m busy.”

Sakaeguchi’s smile falters, if only for a second; Takaya feels a guilty pang.

But then Sakaeguchi collects himself, waving his hands diffusingly. “I didn’t mean right now! Just some weekend, whenever you have time… Here,” he gets out his phone, “what’s your number?”

Resigned, he exchanges numbers and then says goodbye. As he retreats to his bike, cool fingers intertwine with his own, brush up the inside of his wrist, more intimate than the slight contact earlier. Takaya’s glad he’s no longer facing Sakaeguchi so he won’t see his flush. He holds the phone in front of his chest, slowing his steps.

_ Abe-kun made a friend! _

“Yeah, I guess. I knew him already.” His words sound oddly defensive, even to him.

_ he’s nice _

“He is.” He glances over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth turning up a little. Sakaeguchi’s heading back towards the school, hunkering up in his jacket.

He can still feel ugly unhappy feelings radiating off of Mihashi.

“What’re you so worked up about? He’s not  _ that _ good of a friend.”

_ not that _

Takaya waits impatiently, feeling increasingly annoyed.

_ it’s really nothing!! don’t worry!! _

He stares down the quailing space above the phone with narrowed eyes for a bit longer, then turns, picking up his bike. “Let’s get going. There’s something I wanna try.”

* * *

 

Tajima celebrates his fifteenth birthday late, and the week-long wait seems more than enough explanation for his particularly agitated behaviour to Miwako. She just sighs indulgently and tells him not to play with the table settings and tuck his shirt in, please, she didn’t raise him to be such an oaf.

He’s even downright  _ testy _ at times, snapping at his older sister when she tries to comb his hair. Though he cheers up as soon as guests start arriving, goes into full-on clown mode, jumping about and yelling and carrying on until most of his friends (admirers, more like) are collapsed, giggling, on the floor and furniture.

In that moment, when coincidentally no one else is looking at him, Miwako glances over to see him standing stock still and turning his head to stare intently at nothing on the wall.

She shivers, though she doesn’t know why.

Her youngest is supremely talented at calling attention to himself, but also when he wants to can shrug out from under it and escape, to come find her in the kitchen where she’s refilling a bowl that is far too beautiful for the purpose with tonkatsu-flavoured chips. Wrap his wiry arms around her waist and rest his cheek on her shoulder (look at him, showing off that he’s finally taller than her).

Unhurriedly, she sets down the bag and dusts off her hands, then reaches up to pat his hair. “Wasn’t somebody saying earlier they were too old for this sort of thing?” Her tone is light, too gentle to really be called teasing. He squeezes her a little, rubbing his face on her in a gesture that’s part-head shake, part-nuzzle. She sighs; she’s survived the vacillating moods of four teens already, and this sun-child can be forgiven the very occasional storm that passes through. “Take these out to your friends.” She holds up the bowl, and after a moment, he releases her, takes the bowl, and without a word, heads back to the living room.

When she follows a few minutes later with a fresh pitcher of juice, though, he’s not with the other kids. She sets it down, catching sight of something outside the window. When she steps over, he’s standing in the wide bare yard, facing north. Slowly, he squats down, arms wrapped around his knees. She thinks she sees his shoulders shake, though whether it’s tears or shivering at the chill in the air, she can’t tell.

It unnerves her because somehow, the agonized set of his shoulders calls to mind a moment from her own youth, though she was much older than him. A memory of nearly falling out of her chair in a café while on her first date with his father, struck with a sudden miserable feeling of loss, of emptiness, where previously, there had been…well,  _ something _ . And then she’d started bawling, ruining her makeup and, she thought, her date. But no, the sweet boy sitting across from her had leapt to his feet, digging out a rumpled handkerchief and giving it to her along with an apology if he’d said something that upset her and offering to take her home right away and then he just fell silent and held her while she cried mascara all down his green gingham button-up, held her loose and gentle and polite at first and then hugged her close in a way that didn’t quite make up for the pain but  _ almost _ did.

And he didn’t seem to mind that she was causing a bit of a scene, didn’t seem to mind about any of it, except that she was in pain and he couldn’t help her. It was not, perhaps,  _ that _ moment at which Miwako fell in love (there was a rawness in her that was too fresh for any such thing at the time) but it  _ might _ have been when he came by the next day, not asking to see her but just handing her sister an envelope with a note inside, a quaint and personal gesture. She only scanned it enough to ensure that he wasn’t so horrified by the experience that he didn’t want to see her again before she ran out into the street without even her shoes and kissed him.

Miwako still keeps the note in her jewelry box alongside a few other small keepsakes, and every now and then she reads it over and thinks about that day and that pain and all the joy that had followed from it regardless, and laughs always at the “P.S. Can I have my handkerchief back at some point, though? I’ve only got two and the other one is  _ really _ ugly…” even though it’s not really  funny.

She wonders, watching her son in the garden, if he feels that same pain now and what it could mean.

She’s heard people mention such a thing here and there, along with words like ‘soulmate’. Usually met with a reception of arched brows and dismissive comments, from herself included. But, some few years after  _ she _ felt it, she also watched the pain her grandfather went through when her grandmother passed, then watched him waste away and finally die. And if her family scoffed when the doctor said words like “broken heart”, insisted they find a new family doctor, well, Miwako knew better.

Just like her husband all those years ago, though, Miwako doesn’t know any better what help to offer Yuu other than to bring out the cake early to try and hustle the others off a little sooner than originally planned. But she observes him as he slices the cake, and he seems back to his normal cheery self again, so perhaps she was mistaken about the whole thing after all.

* * *

 

Technically, Miwako’s suppositions aren’t wrong, because technically, Ren is dead for almost a minute.

During which time, Tajima feels all the chest-wrenching pain that his mother remembers and that a billion billion other Tajima Yuuichirous have felt at a billion other times.

And then the hands of a stranger jam down on Ren’s chest one last time, and he's coughing and retching and aching and  _ alive _ .

The hands belong to a young takeout delivery driver who happened to notice the small form floundering in the water and be kindhearted and impulsive enough to speed down the bank ahead of him, flail away from his bike, and fling himself into the river after him. And, fortunately, be trained enough that he was able to pull both of them out again.

There’s something anticlimactic about being carried to shore in the arms of a stranger, being saved in that moment not by love or by the vital will to survive but by the simple impersonal human desire to preserve, to assist, to Do Good. Something Ren might find comforting one day down the road, but in this moment, just fills him with shame and a strange loneliness.

“Whoa, lil’ buddy, y’okay, there?”

The young man still hovers with his arms spread protectively over Ren, watching him curl over on his side with his arms over his head. He frowns, looking around; everything’s already getting jumbled in his head, but he had thought there was someone calling for help? Had thought that the kid was floating downstream remarkably slowly for someone who wasn’t really moving at that point, had thought, somehow, that someone else was there, someone helped him drag him to shore.

“Where’d your friend get off ta?” he asks absently, not expecting an answer from the boy, who’s now starting to bawl, still spitting up foam with each pitiful sob.

He blinks down at him, and another little snippet from the lifeguard training course he took the previous summer floats through his mind, pointing out that the kid isn’t shivering and that is more important than the locations of a theoretical Other Boy.

“Hey, we better getcha to a clinic! Do you live near here?” He starts to stand. “We should call your parents—”

The boy grabs his arm, lifting his head, eyes shining feverishly in the light of distant streetlamps. “N-no! Don’t! Please, d-d-don’t…”

The young man squints down at him, frowning again, unsure what to do. But then they both turn their heads as a distant sound resolves into sirens.

The young man offers to ride with him in the ambulance, but Ren, collected enough to be  _ really _ embarrassed now, refuses him as politely as he can.

“Are you sure? If your friend was still here…”

“He is!” Not collected enough to lie, apparently, or perhaps too relieved to care. The young man exchanges a doubtful look with the paramedic, the only other occupant in the back of the ambulance, but then shrugs, stepping back so she can swing shut the door and call out to her partner.

She feels inexplicably furious the entire ride back to the hospital, her bad mood only lifting once she hands off the teen (now naked under a thermal blanket and, thankfully, shivering madly).

As it turns out, no one calls Ren’s parents, nor even his aunt and uncle, because Ren steadfastly refuses to reveal any kind of useful information and then finally passes out when the nurse and droopy-looking social worker leave him alone for too long. They decide they might as well let him sleep for the time being; the social worker is an old hand at gauging these things and pronounces that he seems stubborn but too docile to make a break for it when he wakes up.

In the end, his aunt and uncle only find out when the delivery boy, sent home by his supervisor when he explains what had happened, eventually discovers Ren’s bike.

He guesses its owner and rifles through his things to find his address and some phone numbers on the inside of a notebook in the bag that had tumbled out of the front basket. (Unfortunately, Ren’s phone was in his pocket, and had been the sole casualty of the evening; the delivery boy’s had miraculously pulled through).

Bored as he waits for someone to come take the bike, he noses through the other notebooks in the bag. They’re mostly dull. Except for the one that he initially thinks is some kind of composition assignment. It seems almost like one side of a conversation, and a  _ weird _ conversation at that. Almost written as though the speaker were dead, and after several pages, he shuts it with a shiver. What a spooky kid.

* * *

 

Luckily, Mom’s out when Takaya gets in, so he’s free to rummage through the kitchen unassailed. He finds a few likely candidates, but then comes across a bag of icing sugar. He makes a quick detour to grab the largest towel he can find, then heads up the stairs, Mihashi’s shy curiousity trailing after him.

But Takaya freezes up in his room, eyes flicking from the bed to the floor. Stubbornly, he spreads the towel on top of his covers as calmly as he can, even though his face is surely red. Taking a slow breath, he sits down at the head of the bed with the bag, drops his phone at his side, then pats the towel in front of him.

Mihashi comes to his side but hovers, embarrassed excitement radiating off him. Takaya rolls his eyes, even though his own heart is pounding.

“C’mon. It’s no different,” it is  _ completely  _ different, “than before all this." He gestures between them, wondering when exactly 'before' is in this case. "I’ve got something I wanna try.”

To his relief, Mihashi shifts in the air, settling in front of him.

Takaya smiles gently, working off the twist tie holding the bag closed. “I’m gonna see if I can use a powder to see you. You’ll have to focus on being…whatever, solid, but I think this stuff is light enough that it should work—”

Mihashi lifts the phone, though Takaya’s left waiting a long while before he shows what he’s typed.

_ easier if Abe-kun gave me a kiss first? _

Barely giving him time to read it, Mihashi snatches it back.

Takaya pulls a face, but laughs. “I’m pretty sure a kiss is not going to enhance your ghost powers.”

_ well _

_ maybe I want one anyway! _

_ if Abe-kun’s going to cover me in gross dust _

“What is this, extortion?”

_ wait does that say sugar? _

“Yeah, it’s sugar.” He smirks, then beckons. “C’mon, then.”

Chill air brushes over his cheeks, drifts down his arm. He lets his eyes fall shut, comes blind to the cool press of Mihashi’s lips.

Not so new, now, but still like breaking the water’s surface, sunlight full on his face. Even with the cold of Mihashi’s body, even then, there’s a lightness and a wonder to each tender touch, to the eager way Mihashi leans into him, that sends Takaya reeling, however cool a façade he might maintain.

Takaya draws back, holding Mihashi in place with a gentle touch on his chin. “Okay. Let’s give this a shot.”

With a start, Mihashi fumbles for the phone. Takaya frowns at him as he undoes the twist tie.

_ I’m not cool looking _

_ so maybe… I don’t know… Abe-kun might _

With a guttural noise, Takaya swats the phone down. “Would you stop going on like that? Geez, I didn’t expect a ghost to be so  _ vain _ .”

Dismay flushes off of Mihashi, and Takaya sputters into a laugh. Which just seems to confuse and embarrass him further. Shaking his head, Takaya pats the air where he thinks Mihashi’s head is until he finds the softer texture of his hair.

“Just...stop fussing so much for a minute, will you? I want to see  _ you _ .” Not waiting for a response, Takaya reaches into the bag of icing sugar.

He frowns briefly at the crumbling powder in his cupped fingers, then blows on it.

Clumps of sugar rattle off his palm to the towel under them.

But not all of it, flying straight to dust over...something.

Something that jerks back like it’s been shocked, then sways forward, jiggling oddly.

“Are you laughing?” Takaya doesn’t particularly want an answer, is too fascinated by the hint of shapes now visible to be conscious of his own grin. “Let me try again.”

This time, he pinches some between his fingers, sprinkling it down over Mihashi. The white cloud catches on his hair, revealing an unkempt outline that looks like it’d become a fluffy mess if grown out. Takaya moves his hand, trying to spread the powder out. Mihashi tips his head back, presenting his face.

It’s still hard to really see with white-on-white, but Takaya can make out a smooth forehead and thick brows, the curve of closed eyelids and the bridge of a nose. And down, down, cheeks and chin that still have a bit of childhood’s roundness, and Takaya doesn’t realise he’s avoiding looking at Mihashi’s mouth until he finally  _ does _ and then it’s his turn to jerk back in surprise at the sweet little smile there.

He jams his hand against his mouth, smudging sugar there and feeling the heat in his cheeks. Ignoring the wistfulness that threatens at the back of his mind, Takaya reaches out, brushing his finger over Mihashi’s lower lip, leaving a more solid white smudge. Mihashi twitches, tipping his head back down, eyelids opening on eerie blankness.

“I wonder if I could read your lips like this…” Takaya dips his hand in the sugar again and drags his thumb over the softness of his upper lip, across to fill in the corner of Mihashi’s mouth.

Mihashi lets off a shiver of arousal that echoes in his own body.

Takaya does his best to maintain his calm, but his curiousity pushes him on, tracing the other side of Mihashi’s lips and down to fill out his lower lip. And then, then, breath held and stomach tight, shifting his grip to urge Mihashi’s mouth open. Takaya doesn’t want to, but he makes himself look up to Mihashi’s eyes, search what he can see of his expression. Which mirrors back his own focus, his own nerves, as Mihashi’s lips part and Takaya’s thumb presses inside.

Still, purposefully, he smoothes his thumb over Mihashi’s teeth, breath only hitching a little at the feel of them scraping over his skin. Fingers slipping in to meet Mihashi’s tongue and leave a white smear and then pulling back, making a ring with his thumb to urge Mihashi’s mouth open.

None of this makes sense, not the leap of pleasure in his chest at seeing inside Mihashi’s mouth, not the surge of heat he feels back from him, not the satisfaction when he keeps his mouth carefully open when Takaya draws his hand back. He wants to see more, an ache in his heart and his groin, but he also desperately, desperately needs the feel of Mihashi’s lips, their mouths open and sloppy and strange and exquisite. Mihashi tastes sweet and chalky, sticky from the moisture of Takaya’s lips and tongue. He groans out a soft noise, burying a hand in Mihashi’s hair to keep him close even when they break the kiss. He can feel the pull of Mihashi’s emotions, of his arousal, tide rising so fast but Takaya isn’t as frightened as he thought, not this time.

Mihashi lingers close, lips brushing his cheek, one hand creeping shyly over Takaya’s thigh. He could take that hand, move it higher, place it somewhere different entirely, but Takaya makes himself nudge Mihashi back, scooping out some more sugar.

“I’ve smudged the stuff on your face…”

Mihashi’s cheeks jiggle and distort slightly; Takaya realizes after a second that he’s patting them.

“Don’t worry, it’s still fine. We should get your hands next.” He grabs around where he thinks Mihashi’s wrist is, finding it without too much trouble. He pats Mihashi’s palm in the small pile of sugar on his own, flips it, then starts working it in between fingers and out to their tips. The other hand too, but his eyes drawn to the scattering of dust on Mihashi’s body.

Takaya licks his lips, tasting a hint of sugar there that sends a shiver up his spine. Before he can get unnerved, he scoops out some more sugar and sprinkles it over Mihashi’s shoulder.

Then stares.

“Wh-- Why the heck are you _naked??_ ”

Now, now, he can see the way Mihashi twitches, see a little of his horrified expression. Takaya snickers into his hand while Mihashi fumbles up the phone.

_ not on purpose!! _

_ I just _

_ Abe-kun said he wanted to see me _

_ not clothes? _

Takaya’s laughter quiets. “I do.” Flame coils in his stomach, licks at his cheeks. “I want to see.”

He takes a moment to gather himself, then scoops sugar into both hands, crushing the lumps between his palms. With a slow breath, he slaps them down on Mihashi’s shoulders and drags them down the outside of his arms.

He’s so small; not like Takaya hadn’t noticed many times before, but now he can see. Small but not weak, certainly not here. He can feel the shape of Mihashi’s muscles, enough, enough somehow to propel a ball to Takaya’s mitt, enough here to spark fire in his heart with the feel of them moving under his hands, regardless of what his mind might protest about the impossibility of it all.

When he reaches his wrists and lets go, Mihashi holds his arms up, obviously examining them. Takaya watches him with a small fond smile, smudging more sugar on his hands. Then lingers, trying to tell himself it’s not nerves, trying to tell himself he’s not calculating which body part would be the most sexual to touch next, trying to ignore that he’s not sure whether he’d want to touch it first or last.

Hands like a marble statue but with the faintest blush of heat close on his wrists.

Surprised, Takaya lets Mihashi draw his hands over, press them to his chest. Drag them down. Takaya spreads his fingers, fitting them to the curve of Mihashi’s ribcage, gaze intent on the slim form taking shape. Even as he scoops up more sugar, he can’t seem to look away, and this time, this time he doesn’t need Mihashi’s insistence to get his hands back on him. Down over his stomach until Takaya’s boldness falters and he switches direction, up Mihashi’s sides.

Mihashi flails like he’s being swarmed by wasps.

“What is  _ wrong _ with you?” He says it with a laugh, but Mihashi flinches.

_ tickles? _

“Ghosts are ticklish.”

_ sorry _

Mihashi becomes a knot of tension in the air, and now he can  _ see _ the way he shrinks away.

Takaya’s eye twitches, but he makes himself shake it off, cupping Mihashi’s face and pulling him close to nuzzle. “I don’t know why anything surprises me about you anymore.” Mihashi relaxes, nudging against him, hungry for a kiss.

And just like that, they're plunged back in, Takaya's arms coming up around Mihashi’s back to pull him closer and there’s no resistance of weight or the towel under them, he could fall back and pull Mihashi on top of him so easily. Or lay him back on the bed, trust his own weight to that faint cushion. Feel Mihashi between his thighs, feel how he’d move his hips, his hands, feel things Takaya shies away from with embarrassed heat pounding through him.

With a harsh noise that’s part rejection and part aching want, he buries his face against Mihashi’s shoulder. The sweet scent fills his nose, powders his lips, and Mihashi’s fingers wound through his hair and his lips at Takaya’s temple, cool and light and blissful. Gritting out another rough noise, Takaya drops his hands to Mihashi’s thighs, tugging his legs forward even as he leans into his shoulder, pushing him down, down, down—

“Taka?” The creak of his door breaks the heavy stillness.

Like a popped balloon, Mihashi vanishes. Only a patter of powder falls to the towel.

In that moment, Takaya comes about as close as he’s capable of to hating his mother.

She kicks open the door the rest of the way, poking through an armful of folded clothes. “Taka, I’ve got—what on  _ earth _ have you been doing?!”

He stares back into her eyes, willing with all his might for her to just notice the sugar and nothing else. “It was an experiment.”

Mom steps over quickly. “An experiment for  _ wha— _ ” She sniffs the air suspiciously. Then sniffs him. “Icing sugar?”

“It—”

She sighs heavily. “Taka, if you want treats, just  _ ask _ . Don’t go stealing stuff that doesn’t even taste good!” She squints at his bed. “And now might be a good time for you to learn to wash your  _ own _ sheets.”

* * *

soft

thick

smooth surrounding

darkness that numbs everything numbs the ache in his ribs and the acid burn of his throat

keeps him safe so safe and for a moment

for a tiny moment

Ren thinks maybe it worked  maybe he succeeded  maybe Abe was lying about the dreary fog

or maybe this is what happens when they're united this is his reward for enduring all the pain

Ren basks in it for as long as he can but things are slipping and he can't hold on no no matter how hard he clings to the feeling and the fractured image of that strange boy the more he grabs at it the quicker it crumbles down to a fine dust on his hands until he can feel the crinkly hospital pillow under them instead.

The pain hits him full force. But worse than that is the deep, terrifying rage radiating from beside him. Ren keeps his eyes shut tight, as if that would block out the cold wash of Abe's emotions.

He can’t hold out forever, and he knows that Abe has spent too much time around him while he sleeps not to know when he’s faking. Ren stirs, opening his eyes in a room that’s still dark, which terrifies him at first. He turns away, curling up on his side, wincing when he pulls on the IV catheter in his arm. There’s a long uncertain moment, and he can feel Abe’s anger waver, can feel the terror underneath it, which just makes him feel worse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, then hunches down, pressing his cheek into the flat pillow, tears spilling down to soak into it.

As always, there’s no warning shift of the bed, no denting of the mattress, just suddenly a hand on his shoulder, a coolness settling at his back. And then he starts sobbing in earnest, covering his face and tensed to shaking. Abe curls a hand tightly in the back of the hospital gown that someone hauled onto Ren a few hours before, wrapping the other arm around his waist. Abe tries to squeeze him against himself, but his arm just mushes against Ren’s chest. It's then that he notices how undefined, reduced Abe is. How all he can really feel is his hands, a body that's defined only by its coldness, a vague strip of arm, a hazy impression of legs and perhaps a cheek against the back of his neck.

Ren didn’t think it was possible to feel worse.

Part of him  _ wants _ to talk, wants to find out if Abe, by some strange miracle, has  _ not  _ started hating him for this. But he’s almost grateful that, in the dark and without anything to write with, they can only touch. Abe doesn’t even take his hand to trace out words.

He wants to turn, to kiss him, to feel close, to claim that comfort that has been such a constant, but he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve even  _ this _ much.

Ren chokes out another apology; someone in a nearby bed tells him to shut up.

He cries until he exhausts himself enough to sleep again.

When he wakes again, the first thing he notices is Auntie's pinched and worried face at the foot of the bed. The second she sees he's awake, she drops eye-contact.

"They say there was no serious damage, from the... They don't need to keep you here, but...but you'll be staying home from school for a couple days..."

Ren can only nod mutely. He couldn't even do this right, couldn't do more than superficial damage.

When he gets out to the car, Ruri is in the back seat in her nightie with a jacket over top, sitting in the middle and staring straight ahead with a stubborn frown. Ren pauses with his hand on the seat, eyeing her expression warily, then gets in. She punches him in the leg, then grabs his hand. He kind of wants to tell her she’s holding it hard enough to hurt, but doesn’t want to break the silence any more than anyone else in the car does.

She lets go while they get out and again when they take off their shoes, but then takes his hand again, not releasing him again even when they get to the top of the stairs.

Ren finally summons the will to whisper, “Ruri, I...I'm supposed to...bed... It's morning, b-but the nurse... I have to..."

"You think you're the only one who's been up all night?" She drags him in the direction of his room.

He wants to yell at her, tell her to go away, he just wants to be with  _ Abe _ right now. But the words won’t come so he just lets her pull him into bed, eyes downcast so he doesn’t have to meet her penetrating stare.

It takes a stunning five minutes for Ren to start crying.

He hates it, hates himself  _ for _ it, but having a flesh-and-blood body to cling to right now is soothing, grounding, everything he needs. He hunches forward, clenching his fists in the fabric of her nightie, face mashed against her chest. She smells like fresh laundry, her braids, still a little damp, like shampoo, and with each rise and fall of her chest against his face, there’s a corresponding puff of hot air into his hair. That sound, like the rush of distant waves, barely audible over his sobs but washing over him, drowning him again in her vitality.  She pets his hair and hums an echo of her mother comforting her little brother, but it's not enough.

Voice a pathetic croak, he finally forces out, “…an you...?” then hiccups out another sob.

“Can I what?” Ruri’s voice is startlingly loud, making him twitch and bang his head on her chin.

He takes a shaky breath and tries again. “Can…s-say my name?”

He can hear the perplexed frown in Ruri’s voice. “Okaaaaay, Ren.”

“No! No…like you do n-n-normal…normally…” He twists his hands tighter in her nightie.

A long pause, and then, “Renren?”

Gasping out a relieved breath, he nods frantically.

“You’re dumb, Renren,” she says, rapping his head with her knuckles, but she also huffs out a little laugh, and he feels like maybe mostly she’s just relieved to have him home.

When they finally surface in the afternoon, his uncle stonily puts Ren on the phone. He nearly starts crying again at the sound of Dad's voice.

Dad tells him he's going to be moving back home next year, that they're going to hire tutors and make sure he gets into Mom's old highschool, he'll love it. That everything is going to be okay.

For as long as he's on the phone, Ren can almost believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello I have been working 27 out of the past 36-some-odd hours and I will worry about notes on this Later


	7. Ignition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihi thank you for your patience with my lack of updates orz I'll try and...not go quite so long...next time...

Yuu knows the instant he sees the stocky guy standing stiffly next to the (super rad) coach. Perhaps it’s some preternatural shock of recognition, perhaps it’s just because Mihashi’s waxed poetic about Takaya’s appearance with unfortunate frequency. Takaya gives him a brief frown but doesn’t seem to recognise him, though Yuu can’t tell whether it’s because he’s ignoring him or if it means Mihashi never described him. He considers sulking about that, but decides that’ll be less fun than needling the boy with acne scars from class and sort of listening to Momoe.

But Acne Boy shushes him and pinches him real hard so instead he takes the opportunity to sidle over behind Takaya and grab him around the middle as hard as he can.

Takaya yells, jabbing an elbow where Yuu’s face was. But he’s already scampered out of the way with a cackle. The others look at them, a few scattered snickers as Takaya whips around to grab him by the collar of his old gakuran.

“What the  _ hell _ , man? Don’t touch me!”

If Yuu had any measure of consideration, he might feel bad about ripping open Takaya’s carefully cultivated façade of pleasant calm, but he’s far too excited to be anything other than thrilled. And besides, Takaya can surely handle himself. “ _ You’re _ Mihashi’s--”

Takaya’s palm slaps into his mouth hard enough to make his teeth clip into his lip. He stares Yuu down with widened eyes; Yuu can almost see lightspeed connections snapping into place behind them.

“Hey, hey, boys…” The supervising teacher, Shi-something, takes a step towards them with hands raised placatingly.

He tastes blood, but he’s still grinning when Takaya snatches his hand away. “‘S fine!”

“Sorry, guess you startled me.” Tone forcedly casual, Takaya turns a bland glare on the others until one by one, they look away. In a voice pitched only for Yuu, he says, “Are you fucking stupid? Don’t blab about weird crap here!”

“What’s weird about it?” Takaya gives him an utterly incredulous look. “When, then? We’re not in the same class, are we?”

“ _ Later. _ ”

“But  _ whe _ \--”

“More importantly,” Takaya jerks his chin in the direction of a tall boy in a toque talking at the coach in an arrogant tone as if their interruption had given him an excuse, “I don’t wanna lose that one. Can’t afford to have anyone walk away when there’s only nine of us.”

Yuu scans the field; Takaya’s count is generously including a straggler outside the fence. “If  _ he _ was here, we’d be good!” Yuu goes from proud grin to peering around concernedly. “Wait, where is he, anyway? Figured he was with you…”

“I told him not to come today because he’d just get upset. He really seems to love baseball…” Takaya frowns suddenly. “Wait, why the hell didn’t he say we were going to the same school? That little…!”

Yuu stretches his arms out in front, fingers laced together. “Eh?  _ I _ never told him the name of the school. Not like he needs to look it up if he needs me.” Yuu leans in, eyes wide. “Hey, this coach seems cool. What if she let  _ him _ play? How cool would  _ that _ be, have a ghost pitcher?”

“What,” Takaya bites out.

“What’s she doing with the b-- _ cool _ , I wanna try--”

Before he can take more than a step, Takaya grabs his collar again. “He  _ what _ .” Yuu gives him a sulky look over his shoulder, still pulling at his grip. “You’re telling me he shitting  _ pitches _ , and he never told me?”

“Yeah. You guys don’t do a lotta talking, do ya?” Yuu leers.

Takaya colours satisfyingly but his eyes flick beyond Yuu’s shoulder and he seems to collect himself. “WHAT WAS THAT?” He’s loud enough when he’s  _ not _ trying; Yuu slaps his hands over his ears with a wince. “CLEANUP FOR THE ARAKAWA SEA BREAMS? Aren’t you the guy who had offers from high schools when you were still a second-year?!”

“Yep, that’s me!” Yuu feels less like a co-conspirator than a prop, but he joins in gamely enough.

Grumpy Toque is certainly looking at them now (along with everyone else). “Good, then you don’t even need me. I’m out.” He takes another step towards the fence.

Takaya has a decidedly unpleasant smile. “Fair enough. From what I’ve seen, he doesn’t need a backup.”

“I’m no one’s backup.” Grumpy Toque turns to them fully, arms crossed over his chest. From off to the side, Momoe watches the exchange with an enigmatic smile.

“Oh? Seems to me, you’re not aiming to be anything at this point.” Takaya shrugs. “Guess it’s a good way to save face, leaving before you get--”

“That…that’s  _ not _ what’s happening! I wouldn’t lose to that guy, I just…!” Grumpy Toque glances at Momoe warily, seeming to lose track of his point.

“If we had a pitcher, I’d say prove it. Maybe you come back--”

“We do.” Yuu tugs on his sleeve, eyes lighting up.

“Eh?” Takaya looks at him like he’s got a third ear.

“We  _ do _ . Trust me.” He turns to Grumpy Toque. “Better warm up, Mr. Cleanup. You versus our battery. We’re gonna beat your ass.”

Grumpy Toque scoffs. “Fine. But either way, I’m still not joining.”

There’s an uncertainty to his tone that should seem out of place, but it’s more like he can also feel the looming inevitability hanging over the diamond.

Yuu still wants to try the thing with the bat.

* * *

 

Ruri stays home from school with him and barely leaves him alone for more than long enough to go to the bathroom the first couple days. There’s no chance to talk to Abe.

Ren’s confused at first, then annoyed, and then, eventually, accepts that she’s not going to go away no matter how sour he is. She even insists on spending the second night with him. Or more like doesn’t give him a chance to object, but he has to admit it’s kind of nice, falling asleep lulled by the soft sounds of her breath. Reminds him of sleepovers when they were little, of passing out together in a corner at family events and being carried upstairs by warm mountains of comfort, of when he was small and protected, of when he didn’t need protecting.

He cries, off and on, out of shame and out of sadness and out of disappointment too. Sometimes Ruri just lets him, just continues rambling on as though nothing is wrong or turns up the TV. And sometimes, she pulls him into tense hugs, his face squashed against her bony shoulder with the lace on her collar mashed into his cheek. As if she could squeeze the misery out of him, compress his mistakes and pain into something better, something less ugly.

He’s relieved when, the next night, she just heads down the hall to her own room after brushing her teeth with nothing more than a “G’night.”

Relieved right up until he sets his hand on the door to his room and the reality that he’s now going to have to  _ talk _ to Abe about this hits him. Ren turns around, staring down the hall, but he knows full well that anywhere he can go Abe can go too, so unless he feels like bunking with Ruri indefinitely, he’s…just going to have to…face him. Better in the comfort and privacy of his room, he supposes.

Ren slides open the door and steps inside, pulling it shut behind him, then stands there, eyes adjusting to the dark until he can make out the shapes of his furniture and the shrapnel of living spread across his floor.

Abe’s somewhere near the window; they watch each other warily, like unfamiliar dogs that can’t quite be trusted not to bite. Ren keeps his eyes on that emptiness that’s seeping rage, a slow, sluggish, sickly feeling that permeates the room and was leaking into the hall behind him. He doesn’t take his eyes off him as he edges over to his desk. And then remembers the notebook isn’t in there (or, at least, not the current one), and instead, skitters across to dive under his bed for his bag.

Perhaps, somewhere else, some other household, a well-meaning auntie would have gone through his bag before he had woken up and discovered the odd notebook, would have talked to him about it, would have brought it to the attention of his parents and perhaps a counselor. But if any such snooping had happened here, she never does mention it to him or anyone else.

Ren’s just relieved that, as much as he’d wanted it close at that last moment, this, their history together, isn’t now washed to the bottom of Tokyo Bay. He digs out a pen and the lapdesk he had finally saved up for, then scrambles to his feet, clambering into bed and flicking on the lamp. He plumps the pillow up against the headboard and slips under the blankets, listening to his heart thump in his chest.

He expects to wait, but he’s barely settled before Abe crowds onto the bed, more tangible now as though he’s replenished a little of what he lost keeping Ren afloat. His arms are stiff as they wrap around him, and he just bashes his head against Ren’s temple in a way that he hopes is meant affectionately before slipping down to tuck his face into the curve of his neck.

Startled, Ren freezes up at first with the pen still poised and ready. But then he drops it, kicks it to the side along with blankets and wriggles around, hooking his leg around Abe’s hips and pulling at him until he’s slouching against the headboard with Abe sprawled half-on top of him. Abe nuzzles Ren’s neck, lips dragging on his skin, then settles with a silent sigh.

Ren slips his arms around him, glad he can finally hug him even if he’s still a bit vague. He can’t help wondering whether if he were a ghost too, if Abe would have weight and a more definite shape, or if Ren’s legs would still squash into his hips a little, if he’d remain just a slight resistance in the air.

Abe doesn’t seem so angry anymore, which is sort of a relief except that underneath there’s such a morass of hurt and fear that it scares Ren, chokes him with guilt. Even if he thought there was something he could say, he doesn’t think he’d be able to speak.

Finally, Abe pulls back, leaning against him briefly and kissing him lightly, then shuffling off to sit at his side, waiting. Ren digs out the writing things, then settles again.

The first thing Abe writes is  _ I’m happy you’re safe _

Ren smiles, relaxing.

_ but ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?? WHAT WERE YOU EVEN THINKING? _

He’s not entirely sure whether Abe’s expecting an answer, but… “I thought...I thought, that way, we’d be together, and…”

His hand moves across the page swiftly.  _ how do you know we’d end up together we don’t have any idea how this crap works it could be YOU being ALIVE is all that’s holding ME here and without that we’d just disappear ever think about that no you probably didn’t you IDIOT you think it’s FUN being dead I’ve been fucking lying to you okay everything feels like cotton wool and dissatisfaction it’s fucking BORING and guess what I lied I’m hungry all the fucking time, but you can’t eat I’ve goddamn tried when I left you got kind of hazy I remember trying to shove river mud into my face just to stop _

“Abe-kun…”

_ god did think it would make me happy because it wouldn’t if you’d succeeded I’d’a been even MORE pissed are you stupid do you not know a GODDAMN thing about me after all this time that you thought that would make me ANYTHING _

“Abe-kun, I c-can’t…I can’t r-read that f-f-fast…” He’s starting to bawl, too, which isn’t helping.

_ be honest it pisses me off sometimes but doesn’t matter whether I like it or not the fact is you got OTHER FUCKING PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE YOU KNOW _

“I know, I-I know, Ruri, and…”

_ yeah NO SHIT Ruri and there’s someone els _

Abe finally pauses, though he retains his solid grip on Ren’s hand. Ren stares down at the page, almost panting. He snuffles, gathering the courage to ask, “What’s… S-someone else??”

For a long time Abe doesn’t move, and Ren’s left biting his lip and wishing he hadn’t asked. He’s not sure how, but he feels culpable, feels like he messed up, even though he has no idea what Abe’s talking about.

_ you know how there’s like a bond between me and you? _

_ it’s like that, except with someone else _

“With Kanou-kun…?”

_ no stupid I’d probably have said something by now if it was him BUT YOU SHOULD ALSO CONSIDER HIM HE’D BE FUCKING PISSED TOO IF YOU’D SUCCEEDED you better fucking HOPE he never _ Abe stops for a moment, lets go of his hand. His chest presses against Ren’s arm as though he were taking a deep breath, then he takes Ren’s hand again.

_ anyway the point is I could kind of follow it back to them…but they’re pretty far away so I couldn’t see them clearly but THEY’RE still alive and maybe it’d be like me maybe you’d stay here ‘cause of your connection to them but you don’t KNOW maybe not and I still might’ve gone _

Ren’s heart thumps in his chest, and he can’t respond for a long time, can’t even begin to untangle the mass of excitement and anxiety and guilt in his chest at the idea. He bites his lip, opens his mouth, shuts it, then hums a small noise and tries again. “Abe-kun… That person… Do…would it be…would it…like us?”

_ what do you m _ Abe stops, hand tightening on his.  _ if you’re asking if there’s a red thread between us with little hearts floating around it, then no. the other connection looks (if “looks” is even the right word) about the same as mine, but I can’t see other ghosts’ connections that clearly so I can’t really compare and I don’t know what any of that means any better than YOU do _

Ren shivers; he doesn’t really like when Abe mentions other ghosts. Something occurs to him: “A-Abe-kun? If I had…if I…would…have to s-see ghosts?”

There’s a lengthy pause. Then, Abe starts to write  _ IDIO _ , jerks his hand away, and lunges at Ren. He grinds his knuckles into his temples, and it scares the  _ crap _ out of him and hurts too, but… It’s comforting in a way, that Abe still cares about him enough to get mad at him like this. He starts giggling, which slows Abe down somewhat, then starts crying, which, for once, stops him completely.

Abe slumps down on top of him and hugs him, just like that, hanging off the bed with Ren half on his side. He shifts, and Ren hears something fall to the floor—the lapdesk.

_ done _ Abe traces out on his leg; it’s a bit harder to “read” when it’s his hand alone, but thankfully, he doesn’t seem to want to say anything more complex. Just pulls Ren back onto the bed and buries his face against his chest, one leg hooked over his and his hand twisting in the front of his pyjama shirt. Ren blinks down at the emptiness he curls his arms around, perplexed by the cold patch spreading on his chest until it occurs to him it’s wet.

Abe lets go of his shirt to write  _ were so cold _ on his side, then grabs him again.

“I’m sorry.” And for once, it’s not just deflection, reflex, fear. “I…I’m sorry, Abe. Thank you…thank you for saving me.” Abe nuzzles him, a gesture that turns briefly into a nod and then just into his nose, his cheek, pressing against Ren’s skinny chest as he pulls at his shirt. Ren kisses his hair, feeling the jerky rise and fall of his shoulders slowly fade to a more even rhythm, silently marveling at the idea that there might be someone  _ else _ out there he would feel this connected to, he would love this much.

* * *

 

Takaya drags Yuu into the dugout immediately. “What the hell are you thinking? You don’t pitch.”

“I don’t, but  _ he  _ does.”

Yuu points over the back of the bench, and suddenly Takaya’s aware of the presence that’s as familiar as breathing. Harder to pick out with so much else going on, he supposes.

“You weren’t supposed to come,” he says gruffly, hand covering his mouth. Mihashi shrinks back slightly, but he’s brimming with curiousity and happiness and presses close again.

“‘Kay, here’s what I’m thinkin’: Mihashi and I stand in the same place, and I pretend to pitch, right? But it’s  _ Mihashi _ throwing.”

“That sounds incredibly stupid.” Yuu’s face falls. “But it might work.” He perks up cartoonishly. “How’s he going to be solid enough to throw the ball without…I don’t know, displacing you?” For some reason, his brain unhelpfully supplies the sensation of sticky lips against his own, the way Mihashi felt waxing firm in his lap.

“Iunno,” Yuu says with a shrug. “We’re kinda stuck trying, though.”

Takaya grits his teeth. “Whose fault is  _ that? _ ” He only gets a cheeky grin in response. “You’re right though, we might as well try. Let’s start with signs. Mihashi,” he levels a heavy stare at the empty air, “what d’you pitch?”

He can feel the realisation hit Mihashi that he may have fucked up. But at least he takes the phone readily enough.

_ I’m sorry I didn’t tell Takaya I just thought that because of when with the speaking and so with this _

Takaya snatches the phone out of Mihashi’s shaky hands without reading the rest. “That’s  _ not  _ what I asked you! This isn’t the time for that. What. Do. You. Pitch.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Yuu looking at him with a perfectly neutral expression that nevertheless unnerves him.

He manages to extract all necessary information from Mihashi, and soon enough, he and Yuu are standing at either end of what passes for Nishiura’s bullpen.

Yuu says something too soft for him to hear, his chuckle accompanied by a flourish of happiness from Mihashi. Takaya narrows his eyes but just gives his sign again and waits.

Yuu shifts his weight back like he’s throwing normally, catches himself, then lifts his leg and perpetrates the most uselessly flashy wind-up Takaya’s ever seen. Or tries to. Somewhere in the release, Yuu’s body jerks off course, and then he windmills into falling face-first into the grass nearly on top of the ball.

Takaya’s on them in a second. “The hell happened? You okay?”

Yuu springs to his feet, grinning bigger than ever at the smattering of teasing jeers from the others. “Totally fine! That was wild. Also terrible.”

“Ya _think?_ ” Takaya bites out, trying not to think about what that might have looked like to the others.

“I’m fine, so let’s try again.” There’s something faintly belligerent in Yuu’s tone.

“This isn’t going to work--”

Mihashi pulls on his sleeve, but even when Takaya pushes his phone into his hands, he just thrums nervously.

“He’s got an idea.” Yuu elbows into their space, grabbing at Mihashi’s forearms; instantly, that distressed vibration ceases. “Mihashi. Just tell me what you need me to do, and we’ll give it another shot.”

Feeling as though he’s been dismissed, Takaya stomps back to the plate and crouches. The other two seem to confer for a moment, then Yuu readies the ball in his mitt once more.

Keeping his expectations low, Takaya signs for a fastball, straight down the middle. Yuu nods once.

Then he changes.

Takaya hasn’t know Yuu long, but that look of timid hopefulness is still deeply alien on his features. And yet eerily familiar. The twitchy way he looks away, the little smile when he meets Takaya’s eyes again for a brief second before fixing instead on his mitt.

Takaya gives the sign again impatiently. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore, doesn’t want to think about the feeling in his chest, similar and different from that day in the forest when he’d called Mihashi to him. Doesn’t want to think about how all this feels like constellations dragged into place by some immense hand of gravity.

With a jerky nod, Yuu raises his leg and shifts his weight with a practiced ease that wasn’t there a few minutes before. No showing off this time, just the ball coming in straight and almost true but a little low, not like he was expecting anything different--wait!

Takaya raises his mitt again just in time to have the ball  _ thwack _ solidly into it.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Yuu’s more distinctly himself, beaming triumphantly at Takaya as he waits for the ball. But as soon as Takaya gives another sign,  _ slider, lower right, _ he changes again. Eyes wider, smile a bit less uncertain now, and he’s… _ blushing _ as he moves into the pitching form. This time, Takaya remains still, only adjusts the position of his mitt a little to catch the pitch.

A peculiar sense of awe falls over him as he throws the ball back and sets up again, and mixed in with it, a bright thrill he hasn’t felt catching in a long time. Maybe ever. He lets them throw another couple pitches before tearing off his mask and jogging over.

“Mihashi.” He speaks softly, shielding his mouth with his mitt reflexively. “You can divide up the box more than in and out, can’t you.”

“I…I can!” It’s still Yuu’s voice, but like a different hand on the same set of strings, this one quieter. “Well, not s-so well, but three,” he gestures jumpily, “and…three! It’s harder, li-like this, though…so maybe not? I’m sorry if…no good…”

Takaya stares him down. Releases a slow breath. Then grabs Yuu’s head and scrubs his hair with his mitt, laughter bursting out of him even as Yuu howls a protest and flails. Letting him go, Takaya stares up into the sky at the clouds burnishing gold and orange in the sunset, overwhelmed by a mixture of joy and loss that leaves him with his head spinning.

He’s mostly gotten himself under control when he looks down again, though Yuu gives him a look that’s more sympathetic, more knowing than he’d like.

Gruffly, he mutters, “‘S great,” shoves the ball into Yuu’s hand, and turns on his heel, steadfastly ignoring the tears he blinks out of his eyes as he jogs back to the plate.

In an infinite array of universes, the same moment plays out; in most, as in this one, they win the three-at-bat, and in most, as in this one, Hanai is overcome by his innate sense of responsibility and the promise of finally playing alongside someone he can truly measure his strength by, and joins the team. And an infinite number of Takayas feel the world shift under their feet as they meet a pair of hazel eyes across the plate. Or in this particular case, dark grey.


End file.
